


Brothers

by Sera_Necto23



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Corporal Punishment, Desire, Domestic Violence, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Panties, Public Nudity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Swearing, Tickling, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 48
Words: 444,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Necto23/pseuds/Sera_Necto23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves Sammy.  But they don't talk about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story explores difficult subject matter and contains scenes and imagery that may be disturbing and perhaps triggering to some readers. The two protagonists are on a dark journey, so beware.

It was one of Dean’s earliest memories of Sammy, holding him awkwardly on his lap, a squirming, fretful bundle, squalling, the sour sweet tang of baby piss rising into Dean’s nostrils. 

“Dean, keep him quiet, will you?  I’m trying to concentrate here.”  His dad’s rough voice from the other side of the dim motel room, his dad a dark hunched shape, crouched like always over a mess of papers covering a rickety wooden desk, motel glass half full of Dewars close to hand.

“Sure dad.”  Dean holding a bottle of baby formula in one hand, his other hand clutched around Sammy’s plump middle, precariously balancing his baby brother on his knees, guiding the bottle towards Sammy’s open mouth. 

Sammy turning his head, batting the bottle away with his small hands, mouth open, wailing.

Dean putting the bottle down on the couch, holding Sammy on his knee, jouncing him.  Sammy wailing.  Shrieking.

His dad. 

“Dean, goddamnit!”  Slamming his hand down on the cluttered desk.

“I’m sorry dad.”  Dean close to tears.  The baby wailing.

His dad stood up.  Drained the glass of Dewars.  “Dean I have to get out of here for a bit.  I’ll be back in an hour.  Stay put and don’t answer the door or phone.  Okay?”

“Okay dad.”  Dean not looking at him.  Looking at Sammy’s face.  His baby brother’s wet tearful face, wailing.

His dad out the door, the lock clicking.

Sammy wailing.

“Shuddup.”   Sammy wailing.

Dean jouncing Sammy on his knee, bouncing him roughly, his brother’s head bobbing.  “Shuddup.  Shuddup!  Shuddup you stupid baby you fat stupid baby you stupid-“  Dean was crying.  His hands were on Sammy’s sides, fingers digging in.  Sammy wailing.

Dean abruptly lay down on the couch, his arms around Sammy, pulling his baby brother down on top of him, clutching Sammy to his chest like a teddy bear.  Knocking Sammy’s bottle over, the formula leaking onto the couch's hard fabric.

Sammy wailing, squirming against Dean’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered against Sammy’s head.  His brother’s half bald round baby head, wisps of downy hair.  “Sorry Sammy I’m sorry I’m sorry Sammy.”  Dean’s lips against Sammy’s head, the smell of Sammy’s head, that baby Sammy smell.

Sammy wailing.

“What's the matter Sammy?  What’s wrong with you?”  Dean looked down at his brother’s contorted face.  “Don’t you want your bottle Sammy?”

Sammy wailing.  Bright small baby eyes fixed on Dean.  Wailing.

“Sammy.  Shhhh.   Shhhh.  What’s wrong Sammy?  What you cryin for?”

Sammy’s mouth open.  Dean looked at him.  The small baby mouth gaping.  His one tooth, a bright white against the shiny pink gums.  Dean looked closer.  Put his finger in Sammy’s mouth.  “You gettin another tooth Sammy?  That what you’re goin on about?”  Gently pressed his finger against Sammy’s gums, feeling a small lump.  Looked at it.   Red.

Sammy wailing.  Mouth closing on Dean’s finger, the smooth gums.  Then opening again.  Wailing.

“ _That’s_ what this is, eh Sammy?”  Dean rubbed his finger back and forth against Sammy’s gums, over that little lump.  Sammy staring at him, crying.

“Hurts huh?  Poor Sammy.”  Dean with his finger in Sammy’s mouth.  His eyes went to the bottle of Dewars on the desk.  He remembered his dad from the last time, Sammy’s new tooth.  His dad dipping his finger into his glass of Dewars and rubbing it on Sammy’s gums.

“He’s teething, Dean.  This will help him feel better.  See?”  His dad’s finger in Sammy’s mouth, rubbing.  Sammy's wailing voice quieting finally, into a subdued murmur.  Dean and his dad meeting each other's eyes, both sighing with relief.

Dean put his hands around Sammy’s sides, carefully moving his brother off his chest and onto the couch beside him.  Sammy’s eyes widened, alarmed.  He wailed louder.   Shrieks.

Dean levered himself off the couch.  “Shh Sammy, s’okay.  I’ll be right back.  Okay?”  With one eye on his brother, Dean went over to the desk.  His dad’s glass was empty.   Dean twisted the cap off the bottle of Dewars and poured more of the clear amber liquid into the glass.  Picked it up and brought it over to Sammy, on the couch.   Sat down beside his brother.  Dipped his finger into the glass.

Dean rubbed his finger, wet with whiskey, onto Sammy’s sore gums.  Back and forth.  Sammy was watching him, eyes wide.  Dean dipped his finger into the glass again.  Rubbed it against Sammy’s gums.  Sammy was watching him.

“That feel better Sammy?’” Dean asked.  Sammy was watching him.  He’d stopped crying.  Dean dipped his finger into the Dewars a third time.  Rubbed it on Sammy’s gums.  Sammy watching.  Quiet.

“Better huh?”  This Dewars worked pretty good.  Dean could see why his dad liked it.

Sammy watching him, quiet.

Dean put the glass on the floor.  He lay down on the couch again, beside Sammy, his arms around him.  “That feel better Sammy?  You feelin better?”  He looked down at his baby brother’s face.  Sammy was staring at him, small eyes wide.  Dean considered their colour, a clear dappled greeny-brown.

Dean put his finger in Sammy’s mouth again, rubbing it carefully back and forth over the silky gums.  “It’ll be okay Sammy.  Okay?  It’ll be okay.”  Sammy’s mouth, closing over Dean’s finger, gumming him.

Dean removed his finger from Sammy’s mouth, started stroking his hand over Sammy’s head, stroking the downy hair.   “That’s it Sammy, that’s it.  Go to sleep now.  Good baby.  Good baby boy.”   His mom said that, Dean remembered.  Dean closed his eyes.

Sammy was squirming gently against his chest.  Dean opened his eyes.   Looked at his brother.

Sammy was gazing back at him.  Dean stared into his baby brother’s green-brown eyes.  Sammy’s eyes were fixed on him, taking Dean in, absorbing Dean's face into their depths.  Happy eyes, gazing at Dean with a look of pure, total love.

_Dean._

Dean felt like crying again. 

He leaned forward and kissed Sammy’s forehead.  “It’s okay Sammy.  I’ve got you okay?  It’s okay.”  Sammy smiling at him, a gummy, one-toothed smile.

Dean bent his head, tucking his chin over his brother’s head.  His arms were around Sammy, the solid bundle of him, resting warmly against Dean's body.  He felt Sammy’s hair tickling his throat.   He closed his eyes again.

That's how John found his two sons when he returned, letting himself in to their shabby motel room.  His five year old son and his nine month old son, curled together on the couch.  A quarter glass of Dewars on the floor beside them.

John approached his sleeping sons quietly.  Looked down at them, Dean’s bright blonde head, bent protectively over Sammy’s dark downy head.  The two pure faces, turned inwards towards each other, so small, sleeping.

John bent down, retrieved the glass of whiskey from the floor.  Drained it. 

Went back to the desk, sat down.  Started going through his papers again, making notes.


	2. Chapter 2

Another shabby motel room. 

Dean fourteen years old, with years of this life behind him.  This life, the memories of their old house, their mom, their dad as he’d been before what happened, not even really memories any more, just the occasional sweet flash of feeling followed by a piercing sense of loss.  Dean didn’t think about any of that anyway.  What was the point?

Sammy, his brother, a skinny, gangly ten year old, knobby knees and elbows, slender hands, floppy, silky brown hair, and wide hazel eyes gazing out at the world.  Thoughtful, careful eyes except for when he looked at Dean, and then his eyes were happy, filled with affection.  And when he looked at their dad.  Then his eyes were full of angry confusion, more often than not, and tears.

Like now.

“I’m not going to!”

“You will and you’ll shut up about it Sammy!”

“No!”

Their dad and Sammy both on their feet, facing each other in the middle of the dim room.  Dean sitting at the tiny kitchenette table, watching them.  Again.

Their dad looming over Sammy.  “I’ve had it with your whining.  Have some respect!”

“I’m not _whining,_ dad, I just don’t want to go.  Why can’t we stay here?”

 _“Because,_ Sammy, it’s not safe here anymore, I _told_ you all of this already.  We need to move on.”

“But does it have to be _now?_   I have a project due next week.”

“What kind of project?”

“Science fair.  We’re having a show in the gym.  And my teacher said that if my experiment turns out as good she thinks, she’ll enter it in the regional competition.”

Their dad sighed.  Dean saw his shoulders droop, slightly.  “What’s your experiment?” he asked in a quieter voice.

“Making batteries out of potatoes,” Sammy said.

Their dad looked at him.  “ _What_ the…I’m sorry Sammy, but that sounds pretty goddamn useless.  And not worth the risk of staying another week.  I’m sorry.”

Sammy looked down.  Dean could see his jaw working.  Then he looked up at their dad again.  “It’s not fair,” he said.  His voice was choked.

Their dad nodded, shrugged.  “I agree.  But who said life was fair?  Now I need you to help me and Dean by packing up your things and loading the car.  I want to be out of here in an hour.”

“No,” Sammy said.  “I’m not going.”

Their dad stared at him.  Then stepped forward.  His hands clamped around Sammy’s slender arms and he shook him once, hard.  Sammy’s head rocked back.   Dean stood up.

“You’re going,” their dad said tightly.  “And I’m done talking.  You’re not giving us anymore of this crap.  Now get your things together.”

Sammy stood rigidly under their dad’s hands.  Dean could see him quivering.  But not with fear.  Sammy looked up at their dad’s face furiously, his eyes brimming with tears.  “I’m not going,” he hissed.  “I’m sick of this crap too!  I want to finish school for once!"

Their dad was trying to speak calmly.  "You can't Sammy.  I'm sorry."

"I can never do anything _I_ want!  It’s all about _you.”_

Dean saw their dad’s hands flex against the flesh of Sammy’s arms.  He came over quickly.  Put his hand out.  “Dad, come on.”

Their dad didn’t look at him.  But he released Sammy’s arms.  Took a breath.  “We _can’t stay,_ Sammy.  It’s gotten too hot for me here.   If we stay another day, things could get bad for us.  Is _that_ what you want?”

“You go,” Sammy said.  “I’ll stay.”

Their dad snorted.  “Stay how?  You’re ten.”

Sammy’s eyes turned to Dean.  “Dean’ll stay with me.  Okay dad?  And we can meet up with you later.”

Their dad looked sad.   “Your brother’s not doing that.  Don’t ask that of him.  Or me.  I need you to grow up Sammy.  Start thinking about someone other than yourself.  Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Sammy was crying.

“Maybe I _can_ stay with him, dad,” Dean said tentatively.   “Just for a week.  Let him finish his project.  Have his show.”

Their dad turned to him.  “What difference will that make, Dean?  It’s a risk for us, for nothing.   No.  I need to get the two of you to Bobby’s as fast as possible and get on with this hunt.  Sammy can homeschool for the rest of the year, like you.  It was a mistake to enrol him again.  I shouldn’t have given in to the two of you, when you asked.”

Dean looked down.

Sammy was glancing rapidly back and forth between their dad and Dean.  Then he shouted, suddenly.  “I _hate you!”_  Ran for the door.

Their dad sprang after him.  “Sammy!”

Dean stepped in front of him.  “Dad, don’t.  I’ll go after him.  Okay?”

Sammy had left the room, slamming the door behind him.

His dad was pale with anger.  “Fine.  But get him back here fast.  And let him know that if he holds us up any longer, I’m tying him to a chair until we’re ready to go.”

“Dad!”

“I’m serious Dean.”  His dad turned away.

Dean was outside, scanning the motel parking lot.  He didn’t have his coat, started to shiver in the cold March air. 

No Sammy. 

There was a flower of panic unfurling in his belly.  Dean ran towards the highway, passing the flickering motel sign.  Looked one way down the highway and then the other.  No Sammy.

Dean turned, looked back towards the motel.  Scanned the half empty parking lot.  Then he saw Sammy, suddenly, sitting on the concrete curb at the far end of the lot, half hidden by a parked pickup truck.  He was just sitting there, hands clasped around his knees, his head bent forward, floppy hair covering his face.

Dean walked over rapidly.   “Sammy.”

Sammy didn’t look up.

“Sammy,” Dean said again.  He sat down beside him. 

“Go ‘way,” Sammy said, briefly.

“C’mon Sammy, don’t be like that.”  Dean put an arm around Sammy’s shoulders.

Sammy violently shrugged him off.  “Don’t touch me!”

“Fine!”  Dean replied, hurt.  He withdrew his arm.  “Be a jerk.”

 _“I’m_ not the jerk, _he’s_ the jerk,” Sammy said.  “I’m _so sick of him!”_

“Don’t talk about dad like that,” said Dean.

“Why not?” Sammy asked.  Dean looked at him.  Sammy was staring back.  He was really asking, Dean realized.

“Because…because…he’s our dad, that’s why,” Dean said.  “You can’t say stuff like that about him.”

 _“You_ can’t, you mean,” Sammy said.

“No, and neither can you,” Dean replied.  “Now c’mon.  Let’s go inside.  I’m freezing and we need to get packing.”

“I’m not going back in,” Sammy said.

“So you’ll do…what?”  Dean asked.  “Sit out here til you freeze?”

“No,” Sammy said.  “I’m walking into town.  Find a place to stay.”

“How’re you gonna do that?”  Dean asked.  “You’re only ten.  And you don’t have any money.”

“I’ll ask my teacher,” Sam said.  _“She’ll_ find me a place to stay.”

“You do that Sammy, and Children’s Services will come and take you away,” Dean said.  “Put you in a boys’ home.  And not just you, me too.  Lock me up, most likely.  And dad too.  He could go to jail.  You want that Sammy?  Just because of your science fair project?”

Sammy was crying again.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t.  But I don’t want to be a _freak_ anymore Dean!  I’m so sick of that!”

“You’re not a freak, Sammy,” Dean said.

“Yes I am!”  Sammy said.  “I’m a freak!  Just like you and dad!  We’re all freaks!  I hate it!”

Dean smiled slightly.  “Well okay,” he said.  “Maybe dad’s a freak.  And maybe I am for sure.  Always thought I might be.  But _you’re_ not, Sammy.”

Sammy didn’t smile back.  He put his face in his hands.  “I am,” he said.  His voice was muffled.  “I _am_ a freak.  And I hate it.  I want to die!”

Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “Don’t say that, Sammy.” 

Sammy didn’t answer him.

Dean hesitated.  Then put his arms around his brother again.  Leaned forward with his face against Sammy’s cheek.  “You’re not a freak, Sammy,” he whispered.  “You’re great.”

Sammy didn’t say anything.  But then his own arms went around Dean’s waist.  He put his wet face against Dean’s throat.  He was crying.  “I feel so bad, Dean.”

Dean was rocking him.  “I know.”

“I thought things were gonna be okay for once,” Sammy whispered.  “I could stay in school.  Dad could get a normal job.  We’d get an apartment, even, maybe.  I could have friends over.”

“Friends,” Dean laughed gently at him.  “Who needs friends when you’ve got me, Sammy?”

Sammy punched him, lightly.  “Shuddup,” he said against Dean’s throat.  “You know what I mean.”

Dean bent his head, put his face into Sammy’s hair.  “Yeah,” he said, softly.  “I know what you mean.  But it’ll still be okay, Sammy.  You like going to Bobby’s, remember?  And he’s got all sorts of neat stuff at his place you can look at.”

“And my project,” Sammy continued.  “It’s still at school.  I’ll have to leave it behind.  And all the rest of my stuff there.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s too bad.”

Sammy was crying.  “I’ll never get to show anyone what I was doing,” he said.  “And it was really neat.”

“You can still show it, Sammy,” Dean said.  “You can show me and Bobby, when we get there.  Re-create your experiment.”

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” Sammy said.

“Now why would I think that?”  Dean replied.  “I always thought potatoes were wasted as food.  But _batteries,_ now, that’s somethin else.”

“ _Shud_ -dup,” Sammy said again.  But Dean felt him smile. 

“And you know Bobby loves that gadgety stuff,” Dean said.  “He’ll think it’s genius.”

“You think so?” Sammy asked.

“I know so,” Dean replied.  “He thinks you’re a genius.  He said so.”

“Really?”

“Well maybe not _genius,_ ” Dean said.  “But really smart.  Gifted.  I heard him say that to dad, once.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Sammy was silent.  Dean felt Sammy’s nose against his throat.  His brother’s warm breath, against his skin.

“D’ _you_ think that Dean?”  Sammy asked.

“Think what?”

“That I’m…really smart like that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean said.  “I think you’re really smart, Sammy.  When you’re not being a doof, of course.”

Sammy punched him lightly on the waist, again. 

Dean smiled.  Then said into Sammy’s hair, “Okay Sammy.  We have to get up now.  We have to get goin.  Okay?”

Sammy said nothing for a moment.  Then sighed.  “Okay.”

“Okay.”  Dean started to get up.  Sammy’s arms stayed locked around his waist.   He didn’t move.   Dean paused, peered down at his face.  Sammy’s eyes were closed.  “C’mon Sammy,” Dean said.  “We have to get goin.”

“I don’t want to see dad,” Sammy said, quietly.  “Don’t want to talk to him.”

Dean sighed.  Then said, “You don’t have to.  In fact it’s…actually you probably shouldn't.  Better you don’t.  Just pack your things.  Show him you’re cooperating.  So he doesn’t get more riled at you.  I’ll talk to him.  Okay?”

“I’m so mad at him,” Sammy whispered.

“I know,” Dean said.  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sammy’s chest was heaving.  He’d pressed himself closely against Dean’s body and Dean felt the rise and fall of his ribs.  He was suddenly conscious, not for the first time, of the… _quality_ of Sammy…the cool strands of hair, the slender arms curled around his waist, the soft damp skin of Sammy’s cheek against his throat.  His brother’s faint, light scent, so familiar.  The warmth of him.  His _Sammy-ness._

Sammy was the only one who got into Dean’s space like this.  No one else came close.

And Dean wouldn’t have let them either.  Only Sam.

“Okay bubaloo,” he said.  “Let’s get up.”

Sammy released Dean’s waist, got to his feet.  He was looking down, his expression sad.

Dean got up too.  Chucked Sammy under the chin.  “C’mon little bro.  Game face.”

Sammy looked up, met Dean’s eyes.  Dean stared at him suddenly, taken aback by his brother’s expression. 

Sam gazed at him steadily.  He looked older than ten, somehow.   Smiled at Dean.  “Game face,” he said softly.  “Like yours, huh Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, watching him.  “Just like mine.”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  Didn’t say anything further.  Turned and walked away, towards the door to their motel room.

Dean followed him silently.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean and Sammy shared a bed for many years. 

Years of cramped motel rooms, two beds, side by side, a narrow space between them.  Mostly your standard issue double beds.  Sometimes queen sized.  Sometimes two singles.   Their dad in one, Dean and Sammy in the other. 

The three of them together, their family, sleeping, breathing quietly in the same darkened room.

Years of this.

Dean would lie awake sometimes, listening to Sammy and their dad as they slept.  Stare up at the dark ceiling, his little brother’s head tucked under his arm, listening to their dad’s slow, heavy breaths from a couple of feet away, his brother’s light breaths, whispering over his skin.

Their dad’s breathing would change, Dean noticed, depending on how much he’d had to drink.  A couple of drinks and his breaths would be even, relaxed, smoothly drawing in and out of his lungs, his broad chest rising and falling, his strong body lying relaxed on the bed, large hands resting lightly on his stomach or curved gently against the sheets. 

Those nights Dean would watch their dad sleeping and feel a warm, powerful love rise up inside him.  Their dad, the sleeping warrior, superhero, monster killer, protector of the innocent, those innocent, ignorant civilians out there, just walking around, living their lives without knowing what was really out there, the monsters in the dark.  Monsters like dreams from the darkest corners of the human mind, too scary to be real, but actually real, an actual thing.  But hunted, put down, on the run, killed by people like their dad, by hunter-warriors like their dad.

The hunters.   Protecting the world, the innocent, the families, the children.  Like him and Sammy. 

And Dean would lie there, his arms around his sleeping brother, watching their dad, the large dark shape of him on the other bed, quietly breathing.   And eventually he would close his eyes, drift off to sleep in the knowledge of their dad keeping them safe, keeping him and Sammy safe.  Keeping the monsters away.

Those were the good nights.

By the half bottle mark, their dad’s breaths were louder, laboured, catching in his throat, low whistles rising from his nose and mouth.  And eventually their dad would be full on snoring, loud rumbling snores.  The sound wasn’t soothing.  Dean would toss and turn in irritation, pulling his pillow over his head in a vain attempt to block it out.  His efforts would disturb Sammy who would whine, clutching at him (Sammy’s instinct whenever Dean got restless was to move closer, wrapping his arms and legs around Dean like a monkey).  All in all, not great nights.

But they weren’t the worst.

Past the half bottle mark, their dad would lapse into a loud stupor, sprawled gracelessly on the bed, his mouth gaping open, snoring loudly, his breaths whistling and grumbling.  Usually on top of the covers, still dressed, sometimes with his boots still on.  Dean would watch him, sleepless, his body twitchy with aggravation.  And anxiety.

Because eventually their dad would start to dream.

Dean always knew when the dreams came on because their dad would begin moaning, low in his throat, a ragged animal sound.  His head would roll back against his pillow and his hands would clench against the mattress or pull at his own clothes.  And then he would speak, in a rough slurred voice, Dean only able to make out one word in five.  And sometimes he would mumble in another language altogether, Latin, Dean figured out later.  And that was freakin scary.  Dean hated listening to that.

And those dreams would go on and on, their dad moaning, talking to nobody in their dark room, sometimes his voice rising to a shout.  But he never woke up completely.  Dean knew this because their dad would sit up suddenly on the bed, with Dean watching him, upset.  “Dad?” he’d whisper.  “You okay?  You awake?”

But their dad would never answer, flopping back down, his head bouncing against the pillow.  Resuming his loud snoring.  Moaning.  Tossing and turning.  Talking.  The Latin.

On those nights, Dean would keep watch, not even trying to sleep, clutching Sammy tensely against his chest, conscious of the weapon under his pillow, his knife, and later, his own gun.

And Sammy, sleepless too, clinging to Dean, watching him, watching their dad with wide, anxious eyes, quiet because Dean told him to be quiet, frightened because Dean was frightened, even though Dean said he wasn’t.

But Dean _was_ frightened on those nights, sick to his stomach frightened, every muscle in his body achingly tense.  Not frightened of their dad of course but frightened _for_ him, their tough, strong dad, trapped in his own dreams, tortured by them.  And frightened for himself and Sammy too, of what would happen to them if their dad got worse, those nights repeating themselves once too often. 

And finally, frightened of the monsters.   Because their dad was in no shape to fight them, when he was like this.   And what if those evil, hunted things found out about their dad’s weak times and came looking for him?   He wasn’t in any shape to defend himself, or Dean or Sammy.

Which left Dean. 

To stay awake.  Keep watch. 

To protect.

Because Dean wasn’t going to let anything happen to Sammy.  Or their dad.

Dean learned early.  How to use a gun, a knife.  How to fight.  The incantations.  Their dad was pleased with him, Dean knew.  Tough, capable Dean.   Taking an interest.

But their dad never knew the real reason for Dean’s motivation.  That it was his loud dreaming on those agonizing nights, year after year, his dreaming under the sleepless, watchful, frightened eyes of his sons.  Under Sammy's frightened eyes.

Sammy.  Taking care of him.  That was the thing.  

Little brother, Dean's responsibility.  Sammy, huddled tensely under Dean's arm, curling himself up against Dean's body like he wanted to hide under Dean's skin.  

Sammy, tucked up with him in bed.  

Dean couldn’t remember anything different, really.  Sammy, a small, warm shape in flannel pajamas, with his floppy hair getting into Dean’s mouth and eyes and his cold little nose, usually pressed against Dean.

Dean must have been about nine, Sammy five. 

Early evening.  Their dad getting ready to go out.

“I’m going to be back late, Dean,” their dad said, before he left.  “Get Sammy his dinner and make sure he gets to bed at a reasonable hour.  No late night TV got it?  And that goes for you too.”  Their dad packing a knapsack, putting on his jacket.

“How late d’you think you’ll be dad?”  Dean asked.  He glanced over at Sammy, who was lying on his stomach on the brown motel carpet, a pad of paper and pack of crayons in front of him, colouring.

“Don’t know.  But past midnight, for sure.  Don’t wait up for me.  And you know the drill, right?”

“If you’re not back by morning, call Bobby.  And don’t answer the phone or the door.”

“That’s right.  And if anything else happens?”

“Stay inside the circle.  Use the shotgun with the rocksalt.”

Their dad nodded.  “Good.”  He gestured at Sammy and Dean’s bed, which was surrounded by a ring of salt.  “And how will you use the demon traps, if you need to?”

Dean thought about the demon traps his dad always put on the floor or ceiling using chalk (or masking tape if there was carpet).

“We’ll get the demon into one of the traps and then run away.  Then I’ll call Bobby.”

“Good.  And where’s your knife?”

“Under my pillow.”

Their dad leaned forward, ruffled Dean’s hair.  “Very good, son.  I’m depending on you now.  Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Dean replied quietly.

Their dad nodded.  He ruffled Dean’s hair again, then looked briefly at Sammy, who was colouring away.  “You boys be good.”  He left.

Dean looked at the closed motel room door.  Then he picked up the box of table salt and refreshed the line of salt across the door’s threshold.

“What’cha doin Dean?”  Sammy was watching him.

“Putting salt down, you know that already,” Dean said.

“Why?”

“Because dad wants us to.  You _know_ that already Sammy, okay?  So stop askin,” Dean replied, irritated.

“Sorry,” Sammy looked down.

Dean felt bad.  “Naw, it’s okay.”  He walked over to the picture Sammy was colouring, looked down at it.  “What’s that?”

“My dog.”

“Dog?  That don’t look like any dog _I_ ever saw.  You sure that’s not a bear?”

Sammy giggled.  “No!  It’s my dog, Dean!  The one I want to get as soon as we stop moving around.”

Dean snorted.  “Don’t hold your breath.”

“What d’you mean?”  Sammy asked.

Dean sighed.  “Never mind.”  He went over to the couch and sat down, staring at the blank screen of the TV.  This was going to be a long night.

Sammy had put down his crayons.  Then he walked over and climbed up on the couch beside Dean.  Put his arms around Dean’s waist.

“What you doin?”  Dean asked him.

“You’re my big brother,” Sammy said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “So?”

Sammy burrowed his face against Dean’s side.  “You’re my biiiiiig brooooootherrrr,” he said luxuriously.  Hugged him.

Dean felt himself smile, reluctantly.  “And you’re a little pain in the ass,” he said gruffly.  Put his arm around Sammy.

“No I’m not!”  Sammy said.

“Sure you are,” Dean said.  “But that’s okay.”

Sammy was leaning against Dean's side.  He’d closed his eyes.

Later, Dean fed Sammy his dinner, watched some cartoons with him.  Then helped Sammy brush his teeth, got him into his pajamas.  Tucked him into bed.  Sammy lying under the covers, watching him.

“Aren’t cha coming to bed Dean?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“I want to watch some more TV.”

“Can I watch with you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Cause Dad said you’re supposed to go to bed, that’s why.”

“But I wanna watch with you.”

“No Sammy!” Dean snapped.  “Now stop bein such a goddamn pain.  Shuddup and go to sleep.”  Dean turned the TV back on, sat on the couch, staring at it.  Sammy was silent.

Eventually Dean glanced at him.  Sammy was lying motionless on the bed, looking at him with wide, hurt eyes.

“What’s wrong now?” Dean asked.

“Why’re you mad at me?” Sammy whispered.  Tears were in his eyes.

Dean felt his chest tighten.  “I’m not mad at you,” he replied.  “Just go to sleep, Sammy, okay?”

“I can’t,” Sammy whispered. 

“Why not?”  Dean asked him.

“I need you,” Sammy said. 

“What, to go to sleep?”  Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sammy whispered. 

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Fine,” he said.  Turned off the TV.  Crawled into the bed beside Sammy. 

“Aren’t you puttin  your pajamas on?” Sammy asked him.  He’d snuggled close.

“Nah, I’m waiting till you’re asleep then getting up again,” Dean said.

“Why?”

“Cause I want to watch another show.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Sammy put his head against Dean’s chest.  Dean felt his brother’s hair tickling his face.  “You goin to sleep now Sammy?”

“Yeah.”  A soft sigh.  Then his brother’s breaths, slowing.

Dean lay there, absorbing Sammy’s warmth against his chest.  He felt his own eyes getting heavy. 

A sound.  Dean opened his eyes.  He’d drifted off, he realized.  There was a large shape, dark against the room's overhead light, looming over him and Sammy.  Their dad.

Dean blinked up at him. 

“Why’d you leave the lights on?” their dad asked him.

“Sorry dad, I fell asleep,” Dean answered.

Their dad nodded, turned away.  Went over to the desk, poured himself a shot from the bottle of Dewars on the table.

“Everything okay?” Dean asked.

Their dad nodded, drained the glass of whiskey.  “Yeah,” he said briefly.  “Job’s done.  We leave in the morning.”  He was staring absently in front of himself, eyes fixed on nothing.

Dean looked at him.  “That’s great dad,” he said tentatively.

Their dad nodded, shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said again.  Poured himself another glass.

Dean watched their dad knock back the second glass of whiskey then pour another.  He closed his eyes, pressing his face against Sammy’s head.  Willed himself to go to sleep.

Sammy’s soft, slow breaths against him, the thin little chest rising and falling.


	4. Chapter 4

When Dean was twelve, his dad told him to stop cuddling Sammy.

They were sitting at a picnic table at a highway rest stop, heading north through Nebraska on their way to South Dakota.   Finished with one job and headed towards another. 

It was late July and the air was hot, humid, rising shimmering off the baking pavement of the long highway in front of them.

Dean and Sammy had just returned from the small store alongside the gas station, with cans of coke and a bag of ice for the cooler.  Now Dean and their dad were facing each other across the hot painted wood of the picnic table, under the glaring afternoon sun.  Sammy was a few feet away from them, sprawled on a blanket their dad had spread out for him in the shade of their car.  He was reading.

“What is it dad?” Dean asked, squinting in the bright light.  His dad gazed back at him, a serious expression on his face.

“It’s about Sammy,” his dad said.

Dean glanced over at his brother.  Sammy lying on his side, reading his current book intently, with a couple of other books next to him, waiting for his attention (since he’d learned to read Sammy read non-stop, always with several books going at the same time.  He was gathering a collection of various library books, many of them long overdue).

“What about him?” Dean asked.

“He needs to grow up, Dean,” his dad said.  “Toughen up I mean.  He’s depending on you too much.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, cautiously.

“Like this morning,” his dad said.

Dean thought back to that morning.  Waking up to their dad standing over him and Sammy on their bed, looking down at them.  

Thought back to the evening before.

The motel they’d been staying at didn’t have air conditioning (like _most_ of them they stayed at).  The room had been stifling hot, a clacking ceiling fan doing little to help. 

It was late at night.  Their dad had been out for hours.   Dean and Sammy were lying restlessly on their bed.  Dean had dragged off the covers, leaving only the light sheet.  Sammy had been whining, restless, whimpering in the thick heat of the room. 

“Dean I’m hot.”

“I _know_ Sammy, so’m I.  Just try to get to sleep, okay?”

Sammy turning onto his side.  Then turning onto his other side, the sheet bunching under him.

“Sammy, jeez, stay _still_ would ya?”

“I _can’t_ Dean I’m _hot.”_

“Well whaddya want _me_ to do about it?”

“You gotta do _somethin.”_

Dean sighed.  Then said, “Okay…how bout some ice?”

“Ice?”

“Yeah.  That’ll cool you off.”

Sammy looked interested.  “Okay.  How?”

“We’ll put it on your skin.”

“You mean like the ice cubes?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  You gettin them?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “I guess so.  Lemme up.”

Sammy had an arm and a leg flung over Dean as was his habit.  He removed them, allowing Dean to lever himself off the bed.  Dean padded over to the ancient fridge that was loudly humming at the other end of the room.  Removed the tray of ice cubes from the freezer and brought them over.

Sammy was lying on the bed, looking up at Dean expectantly.  Dean cracked an ice cube out of the tray, put the tray down on the nightstand.   Then he sat down on the bed beside Sammy, with the ice cube held between his fingers.

Sammy was looking at him.  “What you gonna do?”

Dean placed the ice cube between Sammy’s eyes and rubbed it around.  Sammy twitched, yelped.  “Dean that’s cold!”

“That’s the whole point dumbass,” Dean said.  “Now stay still.” He brushed away Sammy’s bangs and rubbed the ice cube against his brother’s hot forehead.  “How’s that?”

Sammy’s eyes were closed.  “Feels good.”

Dean continued rubbing the ice cube against Sammy’s forehead and cheeks until it was gone.  “Better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sammy replied.  “Can you do some more?”

“Okay.”  Sammy’s face was wet with a combination of melted ice water and sweat.  Dean went to the bathroom, picked up one of the motel’s rough, thin handtowels and brought it back.   Sat down on the bed beside Sammy and wiped his face.  Sammy was smiling.  “Do another one Dean.”

“Okay.”  Dean cracked off another ice cube and ran it over Sammy’s lower cheeks and onto his throat. 

“Gah!” Sammy shrieked as the cold ice hit his throat.  He was laughing.

Dean was laughing too.  “Want me to keep going?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  Take off your shirt then.”

Sammy sat up, unbuttoned his pajama shirt and tossed it to the side.  Lay back down, looking up at Dean.

Dean cracked another ice cube and ran it over Sammy’s chest and stomach.  Sammy winced, giggling.  “That’s _freezing_ Dean!”

“Duh,” said Dean.  “Now raise your arms, I’m going to put a cube against your pits.”

 _“No!”_ Sammy said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “What are you, a wimp?”

“No…”

“Then do it then.”

Sammy slowly raised his arms.  Dean observed his exposed armpits.  He cracked another ice cube and held it against the pale, hairless skin.

“Arrgghh!”  Sammy shrieked.

“Stay still!” Dean said.  Held the ice cube down, rubbing it around.  Sammy was wriggling.  “Dean that tickles,” he gasped.

“Too bad,” Dean said.  “You wanted ice cubes, you get ice cubes.  Now for the other one.”  He held the rapidly melting ice cube against Sammy’s other armpit.  “Gah!” Sammy shrieked again.  He was giggling helplessly.

Dean was smiling.  He rubbed the ice cube against Sammy until it was completely melted, then picked up the towel and wiped Sammy down.  “Turn over,” he said.  “I’ll do your back.”  Sammy obediently turned over.

Dean cracked another ice cube and ran it over Sammy’s back and sides.  Then another one.  Held the ice cube against the back of Sammy’s neck.

“Mmm.” Sammy said.  He’d started to shiver slightly.  Dean saw goosebumps rising on his skin.  “Feel better?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”  Dean wiped down Sammy’s wet back with the towel.  “Think you can sleep now?”

“Prob’ly.”  Sammy’s voice was muffled against the bed.

Dean cracked another ice cube out of the tray and flopped down on the bed beside Sammy.  Held the ice cube against his own sweaty forehead, feeling the cold bite into his skin.  Closed his eyes.

Felt Sammy shifting around beside him.  Opened his eyes.  Sammy was propped up on one elbow, looking down at him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Want me to do you?”

“Nah.”

“C’mon, let me Dean.  I could do your back.  It felt real good.”

Dean considered.  “Okay,” he said finally.  Sat up and took off his own pajama shirt.  Lay back down, looking at Sammy. 

Sammy cracked an ice cube out of the tray.  “Turn over,” he said to Dean.  Dean turned over onto his stomach, putting his head on his arms.

Sammy got himself up and straddled Dean’s hips, his knees pressed against Dean’s sides.  Leaned forward and placed the ice cube against the back of Dean’s neck.

“Ow!”  Dean said.

“Cold, huh?” Sammy said.  He was running the ice cube down Dean’s neck and over his back and shoulders.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered.  He started to relax under the cold wet strokes.  Sammy continued rubbing the ice cube over his back until it was gone.  Then flattened his palm against Dean’s skin, rubbing in the moisture.  “There’s one ice cube left,” Sammy said.  “D’you want me to put it on you?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He was starting to drowse.

Sammy got up and retrieved the last ice cube from the tray, then resumed his position straddling Dean’s back.  Dean felt Sammy lean forward, his legs gripping Dean’s sides. 

Suddenly the ice cube was jammed into Dean’s armpit.

“Aaaaahhh!” Dean yelped, springing up.

Sammy was shrieking with laughter.  He gripped Dean firmly from behind and buried the ice cube into Dean’s other armpit.

“Arrgh!  You little brat!”  Dean twisted around, trying to throw Sammy off.  Sammy clung to him with cold wet hands, hooting.

Dean struggled free.  “Think that’s funny, huh?”  He pushed Sammy flat on bed and held him down with one hand, tickling him with the other.

Sammy was twisting and gasping with laughter.  “Dean stop!  Stop!  Stop that tickles!   Dean!”

Dean kept tickling him mercilessly.  Sammy’s face was flushed and tears were running from his eyes.  “Dean!” he gasped breathless.  “C’mon!  Stop!”

“Say please,” Dean said, tickling him.

“Please!”

“Say pretty please.”  Tickling.

“Pretty please!”  Sammy was writhing.

“Say pretty pretty please.”

“Pretty pretty please…c’mon Dean, _stop!”_   Sammy’s breath was starting to hitch in his throat.

Dean stopped tickling him.  Sammy was lying face up on the bed, gasping for air.  Dean lay down beside him.  “Now stay still,” he said.  “Or I start tickling you again.  Got it?”

“Okay,” Sammy said. 

“Good,” Dean replied.  He closed his eyes.  Felt a wash of air from the ceiling fan cool on his skin.  The ice _had_ helped, he realized.

Then he felt his brother’s silky head, tucked against his side.  Curved an arm over Sammy’s head automatically.  Sammy flung his own arm around him. 

“Go to sleep now, okay Sammy?” Dean said.

“Okay,” Sammy whispered.  He’d curled up in his usual spot against Dean’s side.  Dean lay quiet, listening to the clack of the ceiling fan.  Both of them drifted off.

When Dean woke up the next morning their dad was staring down at him and Sammy, both naked to the waist, lying exposed on the bare mattress without covers or sheets, curled around each other, their arms and legs in a tangle.  Sammy had his face buried against Dean’s side.

Dean gazed up at their dad, blinking.

“Dean, get up and put some clothes on,” their dad said roughly.

“Yes sir.”  Dean got up quickly and groped for his pajama shirt, shrugging it on and buttoning it.  Sammy whimpered in his sleep, arms reaching out for Dean, who looked up and saw their dad frowning down at them.  Dean grasped the sheets and covers and pulled them up over Sammy, covering him.

Their dad had turned away.  “Get yourself some breakfast and help me pack,” he said.  “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us and I want to get on the road.  Sammy can sleep a bit longer.”

“Okay dad,” Dean said quietly.  He felt bad somehow, like he’d let his dad down.  But he didn’t know why.

Now his dad was staring at him under the hot sun.

“It’s time you stopped cuddling Sammy like he was a puppy,” his dad told him.  “He’s too old for that and so are you.  I don’t want him turning into a sissy.”

“He’s not a sissy, dad,” Dean said.

“I didn’t say he was, I said I don’t want him turning into one,” his dad said.  “He needs to toughen up, stop clinging to you like he does.  He’s not your pet, Dean, and I don’t want to see what I saw this morning again.  Got that?”  His dad’s voice had taken on a harsh edge.

Dean looked down.  He felt a flush of shame rising into his ears.  “I don’t know what you expect me to do,” he muttered resentfully.  “Sammy’s slept like that since he was a baby.  And it’s not like I've had my own bed, even.”

It was his dad’s turn to look down.  “I know, son.   I feel bad you haven’t had more privacy.  You deserve your own room, much less your own bed.   Tell you what.  I’ll split you boys up.  You can have your own bed from now on.  I’ll only get us rooms that have a pull-out couch for me.   Okay?”

“Okay dad,” Dean answered.   His own bed, wow.  He’d been mad about not having that, for years.  He didn’t feel particularly glad though, now that it had finally happened.  He glanced over at Sammy.  Sammy had stopped reading.  He was looking at their dad and Dean. 

Dean looked away.

That night, their dad gone out again.  Another motel room, two beds, side by side.  Sammy had brushed his teeth, gotten himself into his pajamas.   Now he was tucked into bed, watching Dean.

Conscious of Sammy’s gaze, Dean climbed into the other bed and lay down on his side, facing away from him.

“Dean, what you doin?”  Sammy asked.

“Dad said I could have my own bed,” Dean answered.

“Where’s he gonna sleep?”

“The couch.”

Sammy was quiet.  Dean closed his eyes.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “I don’t want you to.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want, that’s what’s happenin,” Dean said.   “Okay?  Now go to sleep.”

“No,” Sammy said.

Dean turned around to face him.  His brother was lying on his side, staring at Dean.  His eyes were wide, upset.

“Whaddya mean, no?” Dean asked him.

“I want to sleep with you,” Sammy whispered.

“Well you can’t, okay?” Dean said.  “Dad said we can’t, anymore.  You need to toughen up, he said.  Learn to sleep on your own.”

“What if I can’t?”  Sammy asked him.  His eyes were glistening.

Dean felt his chest tighten.  “You can, Sammy, okay?  Stop bein a baby.”  He turned away from Sammy again, ignoring him.  Closed his eyes.  Heard Sammy moving himself around restlessly but tried not to listen.  Eventually started to drowse.

Woke up, feeling a warm weight pressed against his back, slender arms around his waist.  Sammy’s nose was against his neck.  “Sammy!”

“What?”

“You can’t be here.  Go back to the other bed!”

“No Dean, don’t make me.  I can’t sleep there.”

“Yes you can!  Dad’ll be pissed if he comes back and sees you here after what he said.  Now go back!”

Sammy tightened his arms around Dean’s waist.  “No Dean, don’t make me.  Lemme stay here.  Please?”

Dean felt his brother’s warm body curving around his back.  The cold little nose.  He sighed.  “Fine,” he said.  “Just go to sleep.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  Sam’s arms relaxed.  He pressed his body into Dean, leaning against him.

Dean lay on his side, staring in front of him.  Eventually felt Sammy’s breaths coming soft and slow.  He waited a little longer, then carefully untangled himself from Sammy and tiptoed over to the other bed, climbing quietly in.  Lay and watched Sammy’s sleeping shape, a few feet away.  Sammy twitched and whimpered restlessly, but eventually settled down.

Dean watched his little brother a little longer then let his eyes drift shut.  He fell asleep finally, aware of his solitary body lying on that blank expanse of mattress in the dark room.


	5. Chapter 5

 

But despite Dean’s efforts, Sammy would continue to climb into his bed for the next four years.  They just kept it a secret from their dad.

Whenever their dad left them overnight, Sammy would curl himself up next to Dean.  Sometimes he would start off in his own bed and join Dean later.  But often he wouldn’t even pretend to go to sleep on his own, waiting up for Dean and hopping in with him as soon as Dean lay down.

At first Dean protested, his mind cringing at the memory of their dad’s expression when he’d looked down at him and Sammy curled up together, that morning.  Dean couldn’t imagine how their dad would look at him now if he found Sammy in Dean’s bed again, especially after that upsetting conversation at the rest stop.  Didn’t want to imagine it.  So he wasn’t thrilled when Sammy didn’t take their dad’s comments as seriously as he did.

Sammy climbing into Dean's bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. 

Dean protesting.  “Sammy, get outta here!”

Sammy glanced at him.  “Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to _be here_ is why!  You’re supposed to sleep on your own now.  Now go!”

Sammy stared serenely up at the ceiling.  “No.  I wanna stay here.”

Dean’s voice rose.  “ _No,_ Sammy, get lost!  Dad said, okay?”

“I don’t care,” Sammy replied.  “He’s not here anyway.”

“If dad comes back and finds you here he’s going to be seriously pissed,” Dean said.

“Why does he care so much?”  Sammy asked.

“Because-”  Dean paused.  “…because…he thinks you’ll turn into a sissy is why.”

Sammy snorted.  “How’d that happen?”

“I dunno,” Dean replied awkwardly.   Another pause.  “But that’s what he said,” Dean continued.  “So get outta here!”

Sammy smiled at him.  _“You’ll_ make sure I don’t turn into a sissy.  Right, Dean?”

Dean looked at his brother’s face, lying next to his on the pillow.  The bright hazel eyes with their long lashes, blinking at him.  “Yeah,” he said eventually.  “I’ll make sure that never happens.”

 _“You_ don’t think I’m a sissy do you?”  Sammy asked him.

“No,” Dean admitted.  “You’re a pretty tough kid.”

Which was true.  Dean had seen to that, even more than their dad.  Sammy was a good fighter, could throw a punch and take a punch almost as good as Dean (taking into consideration his age and size).  Good with a knife too.  And an excellent shot, bull’s eye almost every time.  Dean practiced with him daily.  But of course, being Sammy, there were always the questions.  Like earlier.

“Why do we have to do this now Dean?  I wanna watch TV,” Sammy said.  He and Dean were circling each other in the cramped space of the motel room, knives in hand.

“Because dad said we have to practice every day,” Dean answered.  He feinted left, then came at Sammy, his knife raised to strike. 

Sammy blocked him.  “Do other kids have to do stuff like this?” he asked.

“No,” Dean said.  “You’re lucky Sammy.”  He stepped back, re-positioned himself.  Saw Sammy adjust his own stance accordingly, an automatic reflex for him by now.

Sammy was making a face.  “How’s this lucky?”

“We’re like teenage mutant ninja turtles,” Dean said.  “Except for real.”  He sprang at Sammy.

“You mean fightin bad guys?” Sammy asked.  He blocked Dean again.

“Yeah,” Dean answered.  “When we’re ready.”   Lunged forward.

Sammy lightly side-stepped him.  “Why us?”

Dean was circling, looking for an opening.  “Because that’s what we do okay?  What our family does.”

Sammy frowned.  “But why?”

Dean leaped at Sammy and disarmed him in one smooth motion, flipping the knife out of his brother’s hand.  It clattered over the floor.  He pinned Sammy underneath him, held his own knife gently against his brother’s throat.  “Now you’re dead,” he said.  “And you know why?”

Sammy looked up at him.  “Why?”

“Because you talk too damn much,” Dean answered.  “Now let’s go again.  You made that way too easy for me.  Concentrate.”

Sammy rolled his eyes but got to his feet obediently.  Picked up his knife and started circling Dean again, his bright eyes focused. 

They were still practicing when their dad returned, carrying a bag of takeout burgers.  He looked at his sons, nodded.  “Not bad Dean.  But watch the footwork.  Here.  See?”  Their dad joined them, taking out his own knife.  The three of them ended sparring together for the rest of the evening, grinning at each other over the flashing knives in their hands, their dinner growing cold on the table.

Later, their dad leaving.  “I won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon,” he said to Dean.  “And maybe not until late.  If I’m not back by the next day call Bobby.”

Dean and Sammy standing together, watching him pack various items into his bag.  “Okay dad,” Dean said.

Their dad looked at him.  “You know the drill.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

Their dad eyed him. 

“Yes sir,” Dean said.

Their dad smiled, ruffled his hair.  Then tweaked Sam’s cheek lightly.  “Take care of your brother,” he said to Dean.  Dean nodded.   Their dad left.

Now Sammy, climbing cheerfully into bed beside him.  Not about to move, regardless of Dean’s protests.

“Do _you_ think this’ll make me a sissy?”  Sammy asked him.

Dean didn’t answer.  He was staring at Sammy in exasperation.

“Dean?” Sammy asked.

Dean tried again.  “No,” he said.  “But dad said you have to learn to sleep on your own.  You’re too old for this.  So get out!”  He put his hands against Sammy’s chest and shoved him, fairly hard.

Sammy stared back at him, a hurt expression on his face.  He didn’t move.  Then he reached out and put his arms around Dean’s waist.  Leaned forward, resting his head against Dean’s chest.  “I c’n sleep on my own Dean,” he said.  “I’m not a baby.  I just don’t want to.”

Dean felt the familiar warm weight of his brother’s head.  He lay there, unmoving. 

Sammy was snuggling against him.  “Dad’s not gonna find out,” he said.  “So what does it matter?”

Dean was silent.  But he felt his own body relaxing, his eyelids getting heavy.  Sammy’s snuggling always had that effect on him. 

Sammy had wrapped his arms and legs around him.  His hair was getting into Dean’s mouth.  Dean blew it away, absently.   Sammy spoke into his chest.  “Lemme stay, okay Dean?  It won’t make me a sissy, I promise.  And dad’ll never know.”

Dean felt Sammy pressed against him, a warm breathing presence.  He gave up.  “Whatever,” he said gruffly.  “Just don’t bug me okay?” 

“Okay,” Sammy whispered.

Dean closed his eyes.  After a moment, he put his arms around Sammy’s waist.

They were never caught.   Sammy would often go to sleep cuddled next to his brother, then get himself up in the middle of the night and go back to his own bed.  He seemed to have a sixth sense about their dad’s comings and goings, and timed himself accordingly.  At first Dean was tense and would ritually protest as Sammy climbed in beside him, but eventually got so he trusted his brother’s instincts.  He would lie drowsily on his back as Sammy burrowed against him, curving one arm over Sammy’s head like always.

Once Dean accepted this was going to continue, they never spoke about it again.  Never during the day.  And not during the nights either, when Sammy would join Dean in his bed, on the nights their dad left them alone.  They would curl up silently together, unspeaking, feeling the rise and fall of each other’s breath, their arms and legs tangled together, one bundled shape under the covers.   Bundled together against the long dark arc of the night.

Lying close against each other, wordless, in the dark.

Dean would remember this later, the warm close silence of his brother.   Years of this -his whole growing up, actually.

So much of what he had with Sammy was silent, Dean thought, later.

Unspoken.  Unacknowledged.  Invisible, but as essential as oxygen.

Eventually though, Dean had to say something to Sammy, using what words he had available.  He tried his best.

Unfortunately, the conversation didn’t go well.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was sixteen, and if there was one thing he could do without, it was school.

School.

Cramped, crowded classrooms, a couple of dozen sets of lungs sharing the same canned air.

Teachers droning on, facing their rows of students, endless garbage info…the latest layer of crap to be laid on top of a pile of other crap, all of it built on a foundation of nothing, a bed of cozy lies like the one about how things really _did_ make sense…and, oh yeah…those monsters in your closet _weren’t_ real.

Dean would sit, bored out of his skull, a hunter in a crowd of soft, ignorant kids, aggravating in their complacent immaturity.  Sit staring, eyes front, waiting for the bell to ring, occasionally making a smart remark to get the teacher’s hackles up.  Then the bell.  Then another class.  Then the lunch break, seeking out Sammy, seeing how he was doing.  Then another dead boring class.  And then another.  And finally, release, picking up Sammy and hiking back with him to their latest digs.  Starting his _real_ day.

The sparring.  The shooting.  The incantations.  The ways to kill the monsters, in all their variety.    Maintaining the weapons.  Drilling Sammy mercilessly, because his brother had to be ready, it was important that he be ready, that they both be ready.  For the next thing coming.  The next hunt.

And then their dad, maybe showing up that evening, maybe not.  Calling in, barking requests, no… _orders_ at Dean for this and that.  And Dean, doing what their dad needed, under Sammy’s watchful eyes.

And finally, kicking back, sprawled in front of the TV, one of his dad’s beers cracked open in his hand (their dad never said anything if it was just one). 

Sammy, seated at their latest edition of the rickety wooden table, books spread in front of him.

“Don’tcha have homework Dean?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Aren’t cha doin it?”

“Nah.”

Sammy putting his pen down.  “Dean, you gotta do _somethin._   ‘Member what the last principal said?  Your grades are dire.  You want to end up failing the year, being put in with kids younger than you?”

“Don’t matter, Sammy.  They’re all younger than me anyway.  And who knows how long we’ll be here?  Dad’s next job’ll take him out of state most likely.  Then I’ll dump this joint.”

Sammy sighed.  “Dad said you need to graduate.  He’s not going to let you drop out again.”

“So I’ll homeschool.”

Sammy snorted.  “You won’t, Dean.  It’s been tried, remember?  I never once seen you pick up a book unless someone’s standing over you.  And who’s at home to `homeschool’ you anyway?”

Dean laughed.  “You got me there.”  He took a swig of beer.  “Tell you what.  You do my homework for me.  When dad brings back the silver I’ll melt the next round of bullets and you can take Saturday off.   Go to the… _library_ …for fun, like you do.

Sammy was shaking his head.  “You’re pathetic.  And so what if I _do_ do your homework?  Even if you do okay on the assignments you’ll fail the tests if you don’t study.”

“Passing grade’s all I need,” Dean said cheerfully.  “It’ll average out.  So whaddya say?”

Sammy sighed.  Then said, “Pass it here.”

Dean hauled himself off the couch, went over to his knapsack on the floor.  Retrieved a stained, floppy spiral ring notebook, scrawled over with ballpoint pen.  Flipped it onto the table in front of Sammy.

Sammy opened it gingerly.  “What class is this?”

“All of ‘em.”

“ _All_ of them?”  Sammy was looking at the mostly blank pages, occasional cryptic scribbles interspersed with drawings of vampires, werewolves, demons… “Don’cha take _any_ notes Dean?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Sammy sighed.  “Okay.  Are there any handouts then?  From your teachers?”

“Um…”  Dean went back to his knapsack, rummaged around at the bottom.  Pulled out a bundle of crumpled paper.  “I think these are them.”  Handed them to Sammy.

Sammy smoothed the papers out meticulously on the table.  Then he sorted them by subject and date, laying them in different stacks.   Dean watched him, amused.

Sammy was muttering under his breath.  “Okay…here’s Civics…here’s Math…this is English…Dean, you got a book study due _tomorrow,_ did you know that?”

“Uh…sure.  On what?”

Sammy was shaking his head.  “Catcher in the Rye.”

“What?”

“The _book_ Dean…where is it?”

“Oh yeah, that…”  Dean went back to his knapsack, retrieved a dog eared paperback with a white label on the front, `property of Westvale Highschool.'  “Here.”  Tossed it at Sammy.

Sammy caught the book with one hand, glanced at it briefly then turned back to the handout sheet.  “The teacher gave you a choice of three questions.  Which one do you want to answer?”

Dean flopped back down on the couch.  “I don’t care.  Pick one.”

Sammy looked at him.  “Have you read the book Dean?”

“Sorta,” Dean said.  “It’s about some strung out dude who gets himself kicked outa school and checks into this hotel for like a nervous breakdown.  Goes on about how the world’s full of phonies, no kidding.  Life makes no sense yada yada.  And there’s this hot chick in there who goes skating with him in a short skirt.  That’s about it.”

Sammy was eyeing him.  “Uh huh.  So I guess you _did_ read it?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

 Sammy didn’t answer.  He was flipping through the book’s pages.  “I’m going to answer this one,” he said.  “`Why does Holden choose to write about Allie’s baseball glove and what is its meaning to him?’  Chapter 5.  Gotta read it first.”  Sammy settled down to read the selected chapter, his brow furrowed.

Dean watched him, smiling.   “You’re such a nerd, Sammy,” he said.

“And you’re a moron,” Sammy answered him absently.  “Now lemme concentrate.”

Dean lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. 

Time passed.

He felt a presence.  Looked up.  Sammy was standing over him, frowning.  Dean regarded him sleepily.  “Wussup Sammity-Sam?”

“It’s done,” Sammy handed him two neatly lettered pages.  “But you’ll have to copy it into your own handwriting.”

Dean yawned.  “I’ll do that tomorrow.  Too tired now.  Thanks bro.”

Sammy folded the pages neatly and tucked them into the book.  Then he laid the book deliberately on top of Dean’s knapsack.  Turned to Dean.  “Don’t forget,” he said warningly.  “Is your class in the afternoon?”

“Yeah, third period.”

“Then copy it on your lunch.”

Dean grinned.  He kind of liked it when Sammy was bossy with him.  It was funny, coming from this short, slight kid, small for his age.  A shrimp.   But brainy though.  “If I do that I won’t have time to go over and see you.”  (Sammy was at the junior high a couple of blocks away).

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “That’s okay.  You don’t need to check on me every single _day_ , Dean.  I c’n eat lunch by myself y’know.”

“I know,” Dean said.  “I just like to, is all.  Keep an eye on you, like dad said.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sammy replied.  He sounded resigned.  “But you’ll copy it out tomorrow, right?”

“Yup.”  Dean’s eyes were closed.  He’d folded his arms behind his head.  Then felt Sammy sit down beside him.  Opened his eyes and looked up at his brother.  Sammy was watching him gravely.

“Y’know, Dean, you’re so good at everything else, why’re you so bad at school?”

“Because I don’t see the point is why,” Dean answered.

“Don’t you want to learn about stuff?” Sammy asked.

“Dad shows me everything I need to know,” Dean said.

Sammy snorted.  “Dad’s not the only one who knows things, Dean.”

“He’s the only one who knows anything about what matters,” Dean said.  “Him and Bobby.”

“That’s not true,” Sammy said.  “There’s a lot of stuff that matters out there, other than _this.”_ He gestured around at their shabby room.

“Oh yeah, like what?”  Dean said.  “Name one thing.”

“Like…like science,” Sam said.  “Or history.  Or math, even.  Why things work.  Why they happened.  What makes stuff tick.”

“Can you explain ghosts?” Dean asked him. “Or werewolves?”

“Well…no,” Sammy said.

“Neither c’n anyone else,” Dean said.  “So they just pretend those things aren’t out there.  Call people like us crazy if we tell’em the truth.  Because it doesn’t jive with what _they_ know.  So if they can’t believe us, how’m I supposed to believe _them?_ It’s all crap.”

“Just because _one_ thing’s true doesn’t mean another thing’s _not_ true,” Sammy said.

“Uh huh.”  Dean was unconvinced.  “Whatever.  It’s time you got to bed Sammy.  It’s late.”

Sammy didn’t get up.  Then said, hesitantly, “Dean…you know I do everything you and dad ask me to…and I think it’s kind of crap.”

Dean looked at him.  “What?”

“I think it’s kind of crap,” Sammy repeated.  “All this stuff we do.  All this practicing.  Prep work.  Who really cares other than us?”

Dean sat up.  _“Us_ is all that matters Sammy.  How can you say that?”

“Because that’s how I feel that’s why,” Sammy said stubbornly.  “But I do it anyway.  Because you want me to.”

Dean was getting upset.  “You won’t think it’s crap when you’re fightin some monster for your life.”

“But why do we even have to Dean?  Why do we have to fight them at all?”

“Because if we don’t, who else will?”

Sammy sighed.  “You’re missin what I’m sayin.  But whatever.  My point is, I’m doing this stuff anyway, for you, even though I don’t care that much about it.  So if I can do that, you can do the same thing with school.”

“Why’re you goin on about this?” Dean asked him.

“Because _I_ want you to do good in school, Dean, even if you don’t.  You shouldn’t need your twelve year old brother finishing your homework for you for chrissakes.  It’s stupid.”  Now Sammy was getting upset.

Dean looked at him.  Sammy stared back, frowning.

“Okay…fine,” Dean said.  “Tell you what.  I’ll make you a deal.  You do everything I ask you to when we’re practicing without complaining…and I mean _everything._   You work real hard at it, no slacking.  And then I’ll sit with you and do… _homework…_ after.   You can help me study.  Deal?”

Sammy was smiling at him.  “Deal.”  He put out his hand.  Dean shook it.  Then he cuffed Sammy lightly on the side of his head.  “Can’t have my baby brother callin me stupid, now can I?”

Sammy looked down his nose at him.  His eyes were twinkling.  “I don’t think you’re _stupid_ Dean,” he said loftily.  “Just…misguided.”

Dean grabbed Sammy around the waist.  Yanked him down on the couch and rubbed his head, hard.  Started tickling and poking him.  “Misguided huh?  Big words for a little shrimp.”

Sammy was shrieking.  “Dean, c’mon!  Stop it!”

“Make me.”  Dean was tickling his sides.  Sammy started struggling to get away.  “Dean!  Cut it out!”

Dean held him down, effortlessly.  “Guess those skills would come in handy now huh?  The ones you think are such a waste of time.”

“Dean, stop it!  Lemme up!” 

Dean shook his head.  Continued to hold him down.  “You’re good like this Sammy.  Flat on your back.  Helpless.  Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Sammy started struggling for real.  He jabbed his fingers painfully into Dean’s throat.  Dean caught his wrist in a hard grip, using his weight to pin his brother against the couch.  Twisted Sammy’s wrist, putting enough pressure on to show the pain that could come.  Met Sammy’s eyes.  Sammy was staring at him, breathing hard.  He’d gone still.

“You seem to think I’m making you do this stuff for me,” Dean said.  “But it’s for you, Sammy.  So you’ll be able to take care of yourself.  Because you and I both know what’s really out there.  So give me some credit.  And dad too.”

Sammy had been staring at Dean solemnly, listening.  But his eyes hardened at the mention of their dad.  He looked away.  “Sure.”

Dean released him.  Sammy sat up, rubbing his wrist.  “That hurt.”

“You’ll live,” Dean said to him.  “Now get ready for bed.”

Sammy got up and went to the bathroom, silently.  Started brushing his teeth.

Later, coming over to stand hesitantly beside Dean’s bed.  Dean turned his head, observed his brother in his pajamas.  “What?”

Sammy gestured.  “Lemme in.”

Dean looked at him.  Then sighed, lifted up the covers.  “You’re gettin too old for this.”

Sammy climbed in beside him.  “No I’m not.”  He arranged himself comfortably along Dean’s side.

Dean felt the soft rub of Sammy’s flannel pajamas against his skin.  “You look like a dweeb in those things,” he said to Sammy.

Sammy glanced down at the bright fabric, a garish pattern of the solar system, against an orange background.  “You should talk.  I got ‘em from you, remember?”

“Well guess why I’m not wearing ‘em anymore.”  Dean said (he’d been sleeping in his shorts and a t-shirt for awhile now).  He turned his back to Sammy.  Closed his eyes.

Sammy was quiet.  But Dean could feel his brother behind him, the thoughts going around in that big brain of his.  Then a hand on his arm.

“You mad at me Dean?”

Dean thought about this.   “Nah,” he said finally.  “But it doesn’t make me feel great, hearin that you think everything we’re trying to do here is crap.”

“I’m sorry,” Sammy said.

“Uh huh.”

Sammy was quiet again.  Time passed.  Dean started to doze.  Then Sammy’s voice.  “Dean…can you scratch my back?”

Dean was irritated.  “Why should I?” he mumbled.

“Because I just sat up for a couple of extra hours, writing _your_ paper,”  Sammy replied.  “Saved your ass for tomorrow.”

Dean turned around at this.  Sammy was watching him, his head on the pillow.  “So you want a reward.  Is that it?”  Dean asked.

Sammy grinned at him.  “Yeah.”

Dean felt himself smiling, reluctantly.  “Fine,” he said.  “Turn around.”

Sammy turned, presenting his back obediently.   Dean started scratching him.  "Okay, rub my back now," Sammy said, after awhile.  Dean rolled his eyes.  "Lemme know if you want anything else," he said.  "Don't be shy."

"I just did," Sammy said.

Dean laughed.  Then he started rubbing Sammy’s back and shoulders, running his palm over the soft fabric of the pajamas.  Heard Sammy sigh.

Dean looked at him, his brother's slender back, his head with its mop of floppy hair, resting on the pillow.  He saw how Sammy’s body had relaxed against the pressure of his hand.

He paused. Then he slipped his hand under Sammy's loose pajama shirt, started rubbing the bare skin.

It was silky soft.  Dean worked his hand up and down Sammy’s spine, kneading the muscles on either side.  Rubbed the back of Sammy’s neck and the base of his skull, digging his fingers into the soft hair.  Sammy was sighing again, contentedly.

Dean considered the texture of Sammy’s skin.  He was familiar with it, from all those years of helping Sammy dress and wash himself, when he was little.  And then later, when Sammy snuggled up with him in bed, backrubs like this.  Sammy’s skin was smooth and warm, hairless, a smooth glide under Dean’s palm.  It felt like how a girl’s skin would be, Dean imagined.

Dean felt his breath speeding up.  Before he knew it, he was pressed against Sammy’s back, his face in Sammy’s silky hair.  His fingers had tightened, digging in sharply.  Sammy winced.  “Ouch, Dean.”

Dean abruptly turned away, turning his back to his brother.  He curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his own body.   Felt Sammy turn around.  “Dean?”

“You’ve had enough,” Dean said to him briefly.  “Go to sleep now.”

“Okay.”  Dean felt Sammy squirming around behind him, organizing the covers (Sammy liked his feet tucked in).  Then his brother’s forehead against his back.  His hand on Dean’s waist.  “Thanks.”

Dean felt the smooth weight of Sammy’s forehead against his back.  “Sure,” he said.  Closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had been noticing girls for quite some time, now.

And they had noticed him.  Boy, had they ever.

Everywhere he went now, girls looked at him.  Every new school there was a buzz around Dean, the girls staring and giggling.  Passing each other notes.  Passing _him_ notes.  (The guys would be watching him too, not too happily, but Dean didn’t regard _them_ as an issue…occasionally he would beat one down, to send a message, and then he’d be left alone.  Sammy too).

Dean pretended not to notice the girls’ attention, for the most part, not that he wasn’t interested, or flattered, but it was just…awkward.   I mean, what did he have in common with any of them?  Nothing.  When it came right down to it, him and Sammy and their dad, they were drifters.  Hadn’t stayed _any_ place above four or five months, that Dean could remember.  Living out of ratty motel rooms.  Their dad, hustling pool for cash, running credit cards.  Passed out on the couch on the nights he wasn’t working.  Dean and Sammy showing up to class in cheap, worn out clothes.  Sammy hadn’t had any new clothes for years, just wearing Dean’s hand-me-downs.  Dean felt bad about that, even if Sammy didn’t.

And what they did, in their real life.  A secret.  Unexplainable to anyone but another hunter.  Unimaginable.  The things Dean had seen.  And Sammy too.

Nope.  Not much in common with the local kids.  Limited for topics of conversation, shall we say.

So Dean found it easier to pretend to ignore what was going on, that giggling, rapt attention.  Ignore the notes (‘ _Jennifer LIKES you xoxo’_).   Focus on just getting through the days.  Looking out for Sammy like always.

But he would look back at the girls, when he didn’t think he’d be noticed, taking in their wide bright eyes, their flippy long hair and smooth, animated faces, their slender legs in tight jeans or short skirts.  Their tits.  He saw all of that, alright.  Wouldn’t have minded getting close to it either.  Just didn’t know how.

His dad was no help.   When Dean remembered the one and only time they’d had _that_ kind of conversation, he’d cringe with a combination of laughter, embarrassment and grief.

It had been a few months ago.  His dad had sent Sammy out on an errand.  Then he sat down across from Dean at their motel room table.  Took a package of condoms out of his jacket pocket.   Pushed them across the table towards Dean like a row of plastic covered poker chips.  “Here.”

Dean looked at them.  Then at his dad.  “What’re you doing?”

“You know what those are,” his dad said to him briefly.  “Make sure you use ‘em.   Got it?”

Dean was laughing.  “Dad, are you _kidding me?”_

“No,” his dad said.  Met Dean’s eyes.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what’s been goin on lately.  When you’re ready to have sex, you’re gonna get it, no problem.  For you it’ll be a matter of being choosy.  No sluts.  You don’t want to catch anything.  And for sure you don’t want to be gettin anyone pregnant.  Use these.  Always.  Be smart.”  He tapped the condoms on the table.

“Uh…o _kay_ …” Dean said.  “Thanks for the…advice, dad, but I don’t think I’ll be getting any…of that… anytime soon.  I’m only fifteen, remember?”

“Fifteen’s old enough to get yourself into trouble if you’re not prepared,” his dad said.  “And anyway, you look older than that.  You act older.  You _are_ older, because of the way we’ve lived, don’t think I don’t know it.  And part of being grown up is having sex.   So when it happens, you need to be mentally ready for it.  Be careful who you go with.  Don’t expose yourself to any diseases or responsibilities you’re not up for.  Oh…and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to drop a bit of holy water on the girl first.”

Dean was laughing again but also rolling his eyes.  “Jesus dad, you’re embarrassing me.”

His dad smiled, shrugged.  “Hey, I’m embarrassed too.  You think I like these kinds of conversations?   But it needed to be said.”

Dean shook his head.  “I dunno know why you think it’s gonna be so easy for me to get any, anyway.”

His dad gazed at him.  There was a look in his eyes that made Dean sad for him, suddenly.  “You look like your mother,” his dad said.  “She was a beautiful woman.  And you look just like her, Dean, the male version, I mean.  You’re a good looking kid.  You’re gonna attract your fair share of attention from the ladies.  So be smart about it.”

Dean looked down.  “Sure dad,” he said quietly.

Sammy was back, carrying a newspaper.  “Here dad.”  He put the newspaper down on the table.  Their dad smiled at him. “Thanks Sam.”

Dean had shoved the condoms awkwardly in his pants pocket, as soon as he’d heard Sammy at the door.  Now he was gazing down at his hands, his face a bright red.  Sammy regarded him curiously.  “You okay Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered.  He got up and walked towards the bathroom. 

“You’re wallet’s a good place,” their dad called after him. 

Dean turned and glared at him.  Their dad was grinning.   Sammy glanced between him and Dean in confusion.  Dean glowered at him too.   His damn family.  If looks could kill right now.  

He stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

So yeah, his dad hadn’t been exactly helpful, on _that_ front.  Condoms in his wallet and holy water, sheesh.  And anyway, to get close enough to have sex with a girl, you had to be able to _talk_ to her first…didn’t you?

Sometimes Dean would examine his reflection in the mirror, not admiring himself like a douche, but trying to understand.  What people were seeing.

Because it _was_ kind of weird, how much he was stared at.  And not just by girls his age, he’d noticed.  By women too, sometimes a lot older than him.  He’d see them turning their heads to look at him, on the street.  And sometimes he got the feeling that _men_ were staring at him (like that) too (which was just, you know, _way_ too weird and something he’d _never_ mention to his dad, not in a million years).    

But what was everyone looking at, exactly?  So Dean would stare at his reflection thoughtfully.

Sammy caught him doing it one day.

“What’cha lookin at Dean?”  Sammy had come up behind him.  Dean met his brother’s eyes in the mirror and glanced away, flushing.

“Nothin.”

Sammy was grinning at him.  “Think you’re pretty?”

“Shuddup Sammy,” Dean said.

“Dad told me you looked like our mom,” Sammy said.  Dean’s eyes went back to his, surprised.  “When did he tell you that?” he asked.

Sammy shrugged.  “I dunno, awhile ago.  Said you had her eyes.  Said you looked a lot like her.  Just like I look like him.”  Sammy grimaced.  “Lucky me.”

Dean frowned at him.  “You don’t look anything like dad,” he said.  “For one thing, he’s a big guy.  And you’re a shrimp.”

Sammy shrugged again.  “Dad says I’ll grow.  So what were you lookin at anyway?”

Dean shrugged back, awkwardly.  “Just wonderin that’s all.  Why I get stared at so much.”

“You’re just noticing that now?”  Sammy said.

Dean looked at him.  “Well…no…but…”  He paused.  “How’d you know what I was talkin about anyway, Sammy?”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “Dude, I’d have to be a total idiot not to know what you’re talkin about.  Whenever I’m out with you it’s like I’m with a movie star or somethin.  You get totally checked out all the time.  And whenever you pick me up at school the girls say `here comes the dreamboat.'”

Dean laughed.  “Dreamboat.  Huh.”  He was pleased, in spite of himself.  Smiled at his reflection in the mirror, a bit self consciously. 

Sammy snorted at him.  “If they knew you like _I_ do they wouldn’t say that.  _Rowboat_ , more likely.”

Dean turned around.  Sammy was looking at him teasingly, his eyebrows raised.  He tilted his head at Dean.  “I’m the preeeetiest rowboat on the water, girls,” he said in a high, breathy voice.  Batted his eyelashes.

Dean poked him in the ribs.  “Watch it smart ass.”

Sammy jumped back, giggling.  “Or what about…tugboat,” he said.  He crouched down like a sumo wrestler and spoke in a deep bellow-y voice.  “Iiiintro _du_ cing…Tugboat Dean!  …Come'n get it!”

Dean advanced on him.  Sammy turned and ran out of the bathroom.   “Or what about…canoe!” he called over his shoulder.  Dean pounced at him.  Sammy sprang nimbly out of his way.  He jumped up onto one of the beds, bouncing.  “Or oil tanker!” he yelped.   Dean made another grab for him.  Sammy jumped out of reach, laughing.  “Rubber dinghy!” he hooted. 

Dean finally caught Sammy around the waist and wrestled him down.   Sammy was struggling, gasping with laughter.   _“.._.Or...paddleboat!” he shrieked breathlessly.  "You're a _paddleboat,_ Dean!"

Dean flipped him over.  “I’ll give you some paddleboat.”   He swatted Sammy’s wriggling rear-end.  “Ow!” Sammy gasped. “Dean!”  Dean swatted him again.  “That’s what you get for bein a pain in the ass Sammy.  A pain in _your_ ass.”  He smacked Sammy’s butt again.

“Ow!  Dean c’mon!”  Sammy was trying to wriggle out of Dean’s grasp.  Dean held him down firmly and swatted him again.  “Ow Dean, that _hurts!_   _C’mon!_   Stop already!”  Dean whacked him again, pretty hard.  “Dean!”

“Couple more,” Dean said.  “Give you somethin to think about.”  He swatted Sammy twice more, with almost the full strength of his arm.  Then paused.  Looked at his brother.

Sammy had stopped wriggling.  He was lying face down on the bed, breathing hard.  “You okay?” Dean asked him.  Sammy didn’t answer.  Dean reached out and turned Sammy over to see his face.

Sammy was red, his flushed cheeks surrounded by straggles of hair.  His eyes were damp.  Dean couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or upset.   “What’d you do _that_ for?”  Sammy asked.

Dean shrugged, a little embarrassed.  “I dunno.  Seemed like you needed it is all.  You all right?”

Sammy reached a hand back, rubbed his butt.  “You hit me kinda hard.”

“Sorry,” Dean said.  He'd propped himself up on one elbow, gazing down at Sammy’s face.  “But I guess you’ll know for next time, right?”

“Next time what?”  Sammy asked.

“Next time you’re a smart ass you might get it again,” Dean said.  Smiled down at his brother.

Sammy blinked.  He didn’t answer, just looked back at Dean with his wide hazel eyes.  Then swallowed. 

A warm wave suddenly rushed through Dean’s body.  He stared at Sammy, no longer smiling, feeling his brother's eyes resting on him like weights.  Sammy was gazing at him with a strange expression, a kind of… _unsurprised_ look _(are we here now?)._  It hit Dean abruptly, like a punch in the gut.

No.  He hadn’t seen that.  

Dean got to his feet.  He put on his jacket.  Sammy was still staring at him.  Now he looked upset.  “Where you goin?”  he called after Dean.

“Out,” Dean answered shortly.  He left, slamming the door behind him.

When he came back, a couple of hours later, the room was dark.  Dean flipped on the lights.  He didn’t see Sammy immediately and felt his stomach drop into his toes.  Then he spotted a huddled lump of covers on one of the beds.

Dean walked over.  Stood over the lump.  “Sammy.”

The lump didn’t move.

“Sammy.”  Dean put his hand lightly on the lump. 

Nothing. 

Dean jostled his hand slightly.  “Sammy.”

“Go ‘way.”  A muffled voice.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asked.

“ _You’re_ the matter,” the lump hissed at him.  “Now go’way.  Lemme alone.”

Dean sat down on the bed.  Put his hand on the bundle of covers and attempted to uncover Sammy’s head.  Sammy resisted, twisting himself away from Dean's reach.

“Lemme alone, Dean!  I mean it!”

“Sammy c’mon, don’t be like that.  What’s the matter?”  Dean had both hands out now, trying to unwrap Sammy from the covers.  He eventually freed a tangle of brown hair, followed by a furious, tearstained face.  Sammy glared at him silently.

Dean looked at him, concerned.   “What’s the matter Sammy?” he asked again.

“Why’d you go off n’ leave me?”  Sammy asked back in a harsh voice.  “What’d I do?”

Dean looked down.  “Nothin Sammy.  You didn’t do anything.  I’m sorry.”

Tears were in Sammy’s eyes.  He still looked furious.  “You just walked out and… _left me_ Dean.  Didn’t come back for _hours._   I was really worried.”

“It was only a couple of hours,” Dean said defensively.

“But _why?”_

“I dunno,” Dean replied, awkwardly.  “I was upset.  I’m sorry, okay?  I won’t do that again.”

Sammy’s outraged expression didn’t change.  “Why’d you get so upset, anyway?” he asked.  _“You’re_ the one who hit me, remember?  It should have been _me,_ gettin upset.”

“You’re right,” said Dean.  “I’m sorry.”

“So why’d you get upset?”  Sammy asked him again.

Dean said nothing, looked down at his hands.

Sammy was staring at him.  “Dean?”

Dean glanced at him briefly.  “I guess cause of what you were sayin.”

“What I was _sayin?”_

“Yeah.  About the `dreamboat’ thing.”

“...that made you _upset?”_

“Yeah.”

Sammy sat up on the bed.  The covers were wrapped around him like a bulky cocoon, with only his head sticking out.  It was kind of funny looking, and Dean would have laughed if it had been any other time.   If Sammy hadn’t looked so miserable, still.

“Lemme get this,” Sammy said slowly.  “You were upset because…I told you everyone thinks you’re _hot?_ ”

Dean flushed.  “Jesus, Sammy don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s… _embarrassing,_ that’s why!”

“Embarrassing to be hot?”

“Shud- _dup_ Sammy!”

“Why?”

“Because it sounds really fuckin weird, coming from you, that’s why!”

There was a pause, both brothers silent. 

Then Sammy.  “Are you... _shy,_ Dean?”  Sammy asked him.

“Shy?  No!”  Dean replied.  “I just…it’s just that I don’t want to hear that from you, okay?”

“But it’s true,” Sammy said.

“What?”

“You _are_ hot,” Sammy said.

“Jesus, Sammy, do you even know what that means?”

Sammy snorted.  “Sure I do.”

Dean looked at him.

“It means you’re really good lookin.”  Sammy continued.  “And everyone wants to jump your bones.”

“What!”

“Well it’s true.”

Dean felt himself flush.  “Sammy…seriously, you shouldn’t be sayin stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because you’re twelve, that’s why!  You’re a kid.  And also…you’re a _guy_ kid, okay?  You don’t say stuff like that about other guys.”

Sammy looked at him.  “Because it makes me a sissy?” he asked.

Dean looked down.  “No,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  Dean looked up at him.  “That’s what you think,” Sammy said.

Dean was silent.

Sammy smiled at him suddenly.  “Saying what’s true doesn’t make me a sissy, Dean,” he said.  “You _are_ really good lookin.  Everyone thinks so.  And it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Dean was shaking his head.  “Do me a favour Sammy, n’ don’t…say that anymore.  Just don’t bring up the subject.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Sammy said.

Dean took a breath.  “Okay,” he repeated.

Sammy nodded.  Dean watched him quietly, a sense of relief easing into him.  Sammy seemed cheerful again, finally (whenever his brother got upset it had the effect of stopping Dean’s whole day).  Now life could go on.  Dean started thinking about dinner.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “….So…what’m I supposed to say if I see you starin at yourself in the mirror again?”  Dean looked back at him.  Sammy was grinning.

Dean grabbed his brother’s bundled body and pushed him flat on the bed.  With his arms and legs trapped in the covers, Sammy tipped over like a bowling pin, helpless.  But he was giggling again, his eyes sparkling.

Dean cuffed him lightly on the head.  “You won’t say _anythin_ you little brat.  Or I’ll smack your butt for you again.  Got it?”

Sammy was giggling.  “Okay.  I’ll look the other way,” he said.

“You do that.”  Dean replied.

Sammy was smiling at him.  Dean smiled back.  Then said, “You hungry?”

“Sorta.”

Dean started to get up.  “I’ll get us somethin.”

“Wait,” Sammy said.

Dean looked at him.  “What now?”

Sammy wasn’t smiling anymore.  “I got really upset, Dean,” he said.  “When you took off like that.”

“I said I was sorry,” Dean said.  “Okay?  I won’t do that anymore.  Can you let it go already, Sammy?”

“If you rub my head,” Sammy said.

“What?” Dean asked.

“If you rub my head,” Sammy said again.  “Before you get up.  It’ll make me feel better about what happened.”

Dean looked at him.  Sammy looked back.  Then he inclined his head towards Dean and closed his eyes.

Dean sighed.  He shook his head resignedly and started to stroke Sammy’s hair.  Sammy was smiling again, his eyes still closed.  “Use your fingers,” he instructed.

Dean rolled his eyes, but dug his fingers against Sammy’s scalp.  “Mmm like that,” Sammy said.  “You give the best headrubs Dean.”

Dean was shaking his head.  “I dunno why I’m doin this,” he said.  “Whaddaya think I _am_ anyway?”  His fingers were hidden in Sammy’s thick hair, rubbing strongly over his scalp.

Sammy leaned into the massage, an expression of pure pleasure on his face.  “You’re the one s’posed to look after me,” he said serenely.  “You’re makin me feel better after scaring me.”

Dean snorted with laughter.  “Not to lay the guilt on or anything,” he said to Sammy.

“Nope.”  Sammy didn't sound concerned.

Dean continued to stroke his brother’s head.  It was calming him down too, he realized, more than the last two hours of walking around had done.   Sammy was right, Dean decided.  His looks were nothing for him to be _(shy)_ embarrassed about.  I mean, they weren't  _his_ fault.  He looked the way he looked, was all.  And as for the way _Sammy_ had looked, when he’d been staring at Dean earlier (and Dean was probably remembering that wrong, anyway), well, him and Sammy weren’t doing anything they hadn’t done a thousand times before.   He’d been rubbing his brother’s head since he was a toddler (he'd started doing it to help Sammy fall asleep).  And he’d spanked Sammy’s ass for him plenty of times too.  

So _that_ situation was status quo.  Nothing he couldn't deal with. 

And Dean would figure out about the girl thing.  Given what Sam had said about the effects of his looks, maybe their dad _was_ right, after all, and it wouldn’t be so hard to move things along in that direction.  Dean could find someone to kiss and get close with and…well, other things, possibly.  With a girl he liked, not a giggling twit, but someone with some snap to her (and who'd also passed the holy water test, according to the lore of dad).  How to work _that_ in, exactly?  Could be awkward.  Dean laughed involuntarily.

Sammy’s voice.  “What’re you laughing at?”

Dean glanced down.  Sammy was blinking at him, his open, bright eyed face popping absurdly out of the bundled cocoon of covers.  His halo of brown, floppy hair.  Dean smiled.

Looking at Sammy, Dean was struck all over again by the _presence_ of him.  Sammy, lying there comfortably, watching Dean with mild curiosity.  This alert, affectionate person, so focused on Dean, confident of him _(you look after me)._   Like he'd been put on earth just for Dean.  Dean’s person.

"Dean?"  Sammy asked.  "What're you laughing at?"

"I can't remember," Dean said.  He leaned forward and kissed Sammy on the cheek, unthinking.  Felt Sammy’s smooth skin and silky hair, brushing against his lips.  The light whisper of Sammy's breath.

He drew back, appalled.  Sammy’s eyes had widened.  “What was _that_ for?” he asked.

Dean was on his feet.  He'd turned away from Sammy, shaking.  “I dunno,” he said after a moment, when he could get the words out.  Then more normally, “I’m makin us dinner now.  You want Chef Boyardee?”

“Sure,” Sammy said quietly.

Dean glanced back.  He saw Sammy gazing at him, a shattered, delighted expression on his face.  Absorbing the sight of Dean with defenceless, shining eyes, filled with startled happiness. 

_Dean._

Dean looked away.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean was finding the situation with Sammy increasingly trying.  Had Sammy noticed?  He sure hoped not.   It was important that Sammy not notice anything different.

Like the effect he seemed to having on Dean.  Just by being around Dean all the time, like he was (and had been his whole life, right?  I mean, what was different, really?)

But it was different though.  Something had changed and Dean was trying to go back from it.  Put things back to the way they were.  And most of the time, he managed it.

Except when he didn’t.   And had to face up to that, finally, before things got out of control.

Sammy and he were keeping to their deal.  Sammy was a bright kid, no doubt about it.  Scary bright.  Gifted, like Bobby said.  And he’d taken Dean seriously about their practicing.  Everyday now after school he was ready, no bitching, no attempts at delay.   Calmly preparing himself for whatever Dean asked of him.

The sparring.  Knife fighting.  The running, for miles, sometimes, the two of them racing each other along roads, back alleys, through stubbled farmer’s fields.  The sharp shooting.  Dean was working Sammy hard, harder than before, no apologies.  And Sammy didn’t complain once.  He would follow Dean’s orders unhesitatingly, eyes focused, turning that big brain of his towards mastering every detail of the endless, highly particular competencies that made for a strong hunter.   And he pushed _Dean_ too, to a level of excellence that hadn’t been so important to Dean before.  Because he wasn’t about to be outdone by his little brother.

Their dad noticed the increased intensity, from both of them.  He was pretty pleased about it.  For him.

Dean and Sammy were wrestling, their dad watching them with approval.  “Looks good, Dean.”  Their dad’s rough voice as Dean slammed Sammy to the floor for the fifth or sixth time and pinned him.  Sammy got to his feet, a set expression on his face.  Rushed at his brother, grappling him.  Maneuvered a leg behind Dean’s knee and twisted him down.  Attempted to pin him but the weight difference between him and Dean was too great and Dean rose up from underneath, flipping Sammy over.  Moved to pin Sammy down again, but then Sammy jabbed his fingers hard into the exposed pressure point under Dean’s ear.

Dean released him abruptly.  “Ow!”  His hand went protectively to the spot under his ear.  Sammy got to his feet grinning.  “Jesus, Sammy, play dirty why don’tcha,” Dean said grouchily. 

Their dad was shaking his head.  “Well he certainly got _you_ son,” he said.  “Goes to show you can’t take the little ones for granted.  Left yourself wide open for that.  And he made you his bitch.  Nice work, Sam.” 

Sammy had been smiling, but at their dad’s words, he stopped.   Looked at their dad coldly.  Then said to Dean, “Show me that hold again Dean.”  They kept practicing. 

Their dad watched them for a little longer, then picked up his bag.  “I’m goin out for a bit.  Back late.”   Dean nodded silently, keeping his eyes on Sammy.  Sammy ignored him.

And after their daily practice together there was the…homework.

Sammy was taking this seriously too.

Now that Dean had committed to study with him, Sammy was determined that Dean make up for years of less than stellar academic effort.  He reviewed Dean’s curriculum, knew it better than Dean did.  Read ahead for him, familiarizing himself with Dean’s textbooks and course material.  Prioritized Dean’s homework (on a… _calendar)_ for him.  Drilled Dean for quizzes and tests.

The two of them would sit across from each other at the table, their books and papers laid out.  Sammy would start Dean off on whatever his homework was for the day, then turn to his own.  He always finished it quickly, getting it out of the way.  So he could focus on Dean.  Annoyingly.

“Why’re you always done so fast?” Dean asked him, snappishly. 

Sammy shrugged.  “It’s easy, is all.  Doesn’t take long.”

Dean shook his head.  “You shouldn’t even be in that grade.  Whyn’t you skip ahead?”

“I’m already enough of a freak,” Sammy said.  “Don’t need to make that worse.”  He scanned the exercise sheet Dean had just completed.  “I think you could add in a bit more there,” he said.  “The teacher asked for five points in your answer, see?  You have three.  Take another look at Chapter 12.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but pulled his hated Civics textbook towards him.  “You’re a freakin nerd, that’s for sure,” he muttered.  Sammy grinned.

But Dean’s grades improved markedly.  And the classes started to make sense to him, too…not sense in the way like there was any _sense_ to them (it was still all bullshit), but the _elements_ of each class’s bullshit began to hang together.   Dean could see a sequential order.  And he was able to make a relevant comment or two, when called upon.  Demonstrate his knowledge.  His teachers seemed both impressed with him and surprised (the assholes).

Dean’s math class had just got their tests back.  Dean and Sammy had studied hard for that one, starting last week.  Dean grumping.  “The test isn’t for six _days,_ Sammy.  Why do I have to study now?”

“Because you’ve been ignoring this stuff all year,” Sammy replied inexorably.  He pushed a stack of handout sheets towards Dean.  “See these?”

“…Yeah.”

“They’re blank.”

“So?”

Sammy sighed.  “They’re worksheets, Dean.  To help you study.  See?  And you haven’t done any of them.  You better get started.”

“I thought I handed all those in.”

“Those were _assignments_ ,” Sammy said.  “To be marked for grades.  These are _worksheets_.  The teacher gave them to you to help you study for the test.  They’re not being marked.  They’re supplementary.”

“Supplementary.”

“That’s right.  Practice sheets.  Like target practice for your mind.  Get it now?”

“Don’t be a snot,” Dean said.

Sammy smiled at him.  Tapped the sheets of paper.  “You c’n do them Dean, don’t be scared.”

Dean reached across the table and cuffed him on the head.  “I’m not scared you little brat.”

Sammy ignored this.  He folded his hands on the table and regarded Dean calmly.  “Well get started then,” he said.  “Do one of these a day til the day of the test, and you should be in good shape.”

Dean picked up the first worksheet (Sammy had _sorted_ them for him) and looked at the five math questions on it with no enthusiasm.   “Bossy,” he grumbled.

“Yep,” Sammy answered cheerfully.

Dean picked up a pencil and started in on question one.  He felt himself smiling.

Now the test was back.  The teacher had laid it facedown on Dean’s desk.  Dean picked it up carefully.  In spite of himself, he was rather nervous.  But not so much for himself.  What would Sammy say?  He turned the paper over.  Stared at the grade, marked in red, at the top. 

 _(Ninety percent)._  

And with a note beside it, in his math teacher’s practically unreadable handwriting.  “Good work, Mr. Winchester.  Congratulations.”

Dean couldn’t remember receiving a grade that high in his life.  He folded the test and tucked it carefully between the pages of his textbook.

Later that evening, sitting with Sammy at their table.  Sammy looking at him.  “You get the math test back yet?”  (Sammy had been asking Dean about it for the past two days).

Dean was writing.  Another book study, ugh.  “Uh huh,” he answered, without looking up. 

Sammy was staring at him.  “What, today?”

“Uhm hm.”

“Well…how’d you do?”

Dean shrugged.  “Okay.”

Sammy stared at him exasperated.  “Okay…well...c’n I _see it?”_

“Sure,” Dean said.  He made a point of casually retrieving his math textbook from his knapsack.  Paged through it, unhurriedly.

Sammy was watching.  “Dean!”

Dean located the test and flipped it across the table to Sammy.  He leaned back in his chair, watching.

Sammy had grabbed the folded paper, opening it.  His eyes widened.  “Ninety percent!  Holy shit!”

Dean had folded his hands across his abdomen.  His eyes were half closed.  He was grinning. “Is that… _surprise_ I’m hearin?”

Sammy laid the test down on the table reverently.  “This is _awesome,_ Dean!”

Dean was grinning.  “Not too shabby, huh?”

“No,” Sammy agreed.  “It’s great.”  He was looking at Dean with shining eyes, smiling from ear to ear.  Dean smiled back, happy for Sammy (and fairly pleased with _himself)._ But then as he watched, Sammy’s expression changed.   He stopped smiling and bent his head.  Dean saw his lips tremble.

Dean stopped smiling too.  He leaned forward, looked into Sammy's face.  "Hey Sam…Sammy.”

“Yeah.”  Sammy didn’t look up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin.”  Sammy said.  But he didn’t look up, stayed blinking down at the paper on the desk.

Dean looked at him for a moment longer then got up and walked around the table.  Stood beside Sammy’s chair and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.   “Sammy.  What’s goin on?”

Sammy was still looking down.  Then he turned his head.  Put his face against Dean’s shirt.  “I always knew you could do it.”  His voice was muffled.

Dean looked down at Sammy’s tousled mop of hair.  Gripped Sammy’s shoulder with his hand.  “Sammy, why’re you gettin so worked up?  I mean, c’mon.  It’s just a stupid math test.”

Sammy raised his head and looked up at Dean’s face.  There were tears in his eyes.  Dean stared at him with concern.  “Sammy?”

“Don’t you see, Dean?” Sammy asked him.

Dean shook his head.  “Um, no.  See what?”

Sammy smiled at him through his tears.  “You c’n do anythin you want.  You could do just as good in school as me if you wanted to.”

Dean shrugged.  “Sure, I guess so.  Thing is Sammy, I don’t really want to.  I just don’t care about it that much.”

Sammy’s eyes widened.  “You don’t?  You’ve been studying pretty hard.”

“I’ve been doing that because I promised you,” Dean said.  “Keeping up my end of the deal.”

Sammy was looking at him.  “But Dean, if you keep getting marks like these you could go on to college.”

Dean laughed.  “Now why would I want to do _that?”_

Sammy gazed at him earnestly.  “Because you could be whatever you wanted, Dean.  You don’t have to grow up to be a hunter.”

Dean wasn’t laughing now.  “I’m already a hunter, Sammy,” he said.  “And I don’t want to be anything else.”

“And you wouldn’t have to live like this,” Sammy continued, as if Dean hadn’t spoken.  He gestured around at their shabby motel room, with the scramble of newspaper articles, maps and photographs their dad had taped to the wall.  “You could get a real job.  Live anywhere you wanted.”

“But Sammy, I don’t want to,” Dean said.

Sammy looked down.  Then he turned his face into Dean’s side again.  “And I could come with you,” he said quietly.  He was speaking into Dean’s shirt.  “I could live with you, while you were going to school.”

Dean looked down at his brother’s bent head.  He took a breath.  “Oh so that’s what this is about,” he said.

Sammy glanced up.  “What do you mean?”

“You think this math test is going to magically make me into some ace student who’ll go to college on a full ride,” Dean said.  “End up studying law or business or some such crap so I c’n turn into another corporate prick.  And you’ll what, come with me to…keep house?”

Sammy blinked.  “Well…yeah, I guess, sorta,” he said.  “I could live with you n’ finish highschool.  And then I’d go to college too, eventually.”

“And what about dad?”  Dean asked.  “You were thinkin we’d just up and leave him?”

Sammy met his eyes.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That’s what I was thinkin.”

Dean shook his head.  He was frowning at Sammy now.  “We’re not leaving dad,” Dean said.  “How c’n you even suggest that Sammy?   He relies on us.  We’re all he has.”

Sammy was frowning back.  “He relies on _you,_ you mean,” he said.  “I think he’d be happier if I didn’t exist.”

“Sammy that’s not true,” Dean said, distressed.

“It’s true and you know it,” Sammy said.  “I’m just an inconvenience.  Slowing you n’ him down.”  His eyes had that cold look in them now, a look that Dean had seen more and more lately, whenever Sammy talked about their dad.  It made him look a lot older.  Not like a kid anymore.

Dean decided to end this.  “Wow,” he said lightly, trying to joke.  “If I’d known doing good on that test would bring on _this_ downer conversation, I wouldn’t’ve studied so hard.”

Sammy didn’t laugh.  He looked up at Dean.  “Haven’t you ever thought about it Dean?  Goin to college?  Gettin out of the life?  You could you know, you keep gettin marks like these.”

“No,” Dean said, seriously now.  “I never have.  Goin to college to get some bullshit job is just about the _last_ thing I want.  And I’m not leaving dad.  I’m his hunting partner now, Sammy, that’s what he’s raised me to be.  I’d never leave him to hunt alone.”

Sammy looked down.  “Oh,” he said quietly.  His shoulders had slumped.

Dean smiled at him.  “Don’t sound so bummed,” he said.  “When you get older you c’n come on hunts with us too.  It’ll be the three of us, together.  The three amigos.”  He rubbed his hand comfortingly over Sammy’s shoulders.

Sammy leaned back against him.  Dean could see him absorbing this, absorbing the rubs, relaxing under them.  Sammy.  The Sammy-ness of him.  Dean was smiling.

But then Sammy spoke. “That's just about the… _last_ thing I want,” he said deliberately.  His eyes met Dean’s.

Dean’s hand stilled.  He stopped smiling.  “You’re too young to know what you want,” he said.  “You’re only twelve.  You’ll change your mind.” 

“No I won’t,” Sammy said.  “ _I_ want to go to college.”  His head was tipped back against Dean’s stomach, giving Dean a bird’s eye view of his smooth forehead with its silky dark brows.

Dean snorted.  “And what, end up some bullshit tax accountant?  Or _lawyer?”_  Both his hands were on Sammy’s shoulders now, he noticed.  He paused, then dug his fingers in, feeling the give of Sammy’s muscles under his grip.

Sammy was leaning back against Dean silently.  He’d closed his eyes, his expression smoothing out.    “You’ll feel differently when dad starts letting you come out with us,” Dean said to him.  “You’ll see.”

Sammy opened his eyes.  He looked up at Dean.  Dean stared back at him, a bit startled at the sight of those two big eyes, with their bright, greeny-brown, gold flecked irises, regarding him.   The dark pupils, focused on him.

“Maybe _you’ll_ feel differently,” Sammy said.  “When I go away to college.  Maybe you’ll want to come with _me,_ then.”

Dean started to clarify this, then stopped.  Why fight, and get Sammy upset again?  “Maybe,” he said diplomatically.  “That’s a long way off yet.  A lot of things could happen.”  He released Sammy’s shoulders and walked back to his side of the table.  Sat down.  They both resumed their homework.  But Sammy kept Dean’s math test laid out before him, Dean noticed, resting his arm on top of it.

Their dad was at the door.   “Hey boys.”  He came into the room, setting down a new bottle of Dewars and a bag of takeout on the table.  “Brought dinner.”

“Thanks dad,” Dean said.  He looked up at their dad’s face.  Their dad was smiling, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.  In one of his rare good moods.

Their dad looked at the spread of papers and books on the table.  “Think you c’n clear some of that away?  I’ll get plates.”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He started to gather his things up. 

“I’m not done my homework yet, dad,” said Sammy.  “And neither is Dean.”  Dean glanced at him warningly.

Their dad cocked at eye at his younger son then looked at Dean.  _“Homework_ , Dean?  What you workin on?”

“English,” Dean muttered.  “But I’m done anyway.”

“No you’re not,” Sammy said.  “You’re less than half way.  That assignment’s due the day after tomorrow.  You need to get the first two questions finished for tonight at least.  That way you won’t be rushing and we’ll have time to look over everything tomorrow before you hand it in.”

Their dad was laughing.  “Since when did you become _his_ boss?” he asked Sammy.  Sammy gazed back at him, not answering.

Dean was glaring at his brother.  “I’m done for _tonight,_ ” he said to Sammy.  He stood up, stuffed his unfinished homework into his bag.  “And so are you, Sammy, for the time being.  Clear the table so we c’n eat.”

Sammy glanced unhappily between him and their dad.  He abruptly dumped his own papers and books onto the floor beside his chair, his movements uncharacteristically rough.  Then he paused, picked up Dean’s math test and held it out to him.  “Here,” he said.  Darted another look at their dad.

Dean glanced at their dad too.  Clearly Sammy expected Dean to show their dad his math test, displaying its ninety percent grade to his amazed eyes.   But their dad was starting to look impatient.  He had set plates and cutlery in a stack on the table, waiting for space to lay them out.  As Dean watched, he cracked open the new bottle of Dewars and poured himself a glass.  Downed it in one gulp.

“I don’t need it anymore Sammy,” Dean said.  “You can keep it, if you want.”

Sammy looked crushed.   He met Dean’s eyes then looked away.  Feeling badly, Dean started to reach out, to take the test from him and show it to their dad after all (although he was pretty sure Sammy’d be disappointed by the reaction _there,_ too).  But then he stopped, watching as Sammy carefully laid the test down on the table and folded it, smoothing the paper delicately and tucking it away into one of his own books.

They ate, their dad discussing his day’s findings with Dean.  The usual mix of the tedious and startlingly bizarre (bizarre to _others,_ that is).  He asked Dean if he wanted a beer and got up to get him one from the fridge.  He was on his third glass of Dewars by the end of the meal.  Sammy ate quickly and left the table, taking his dishes to the sink.  He washed them and came back to collect his homework from its pile on the floor.   Settled himself on the threadbare foldout couch and started working on it again.

Dean kept half an eye on his brother while he and their dad finished their meal.  Sammy’s movements were contained, his eyes lowered.  It was noticeable, Dean thought, how much Sammy drew into himself, whenever their dad was around.  Rarely looking up, answering their dad only if he absolutely had to, and then more often than not in a strained, stuffy voice, a tone he rarely used with Dean, but the only one their dad ever heard from him, practically.  No wonder their dad got irritated with Sammy so much.  If ever two people brought out the worst in each other, it was them.  

Dean sat with their dad for a while longer at the table, talking, but his eyes were on Sammy, crouched over his homework on the couch.  Watching his brother’s still, expressionless face.

Dean and their dad had finished eating.  Dean cleared the dishes and washed them.  Their dad picked up the bottle of Dewars and his glass and went over to the couch, flopping himself carelessly down beside Sammy.  He poured himself another glass and turned on the TV.  Dean saw Sammy draw his feet in, tucking them away from their sprawling dad, like a cat.  Then he gathered up his papers and books, packing them neatly away in his bag.  Got up.

“Don’t need t’leave Sammy,” his dad said.  His voice was relaxed, a little slurred.  “M’ not goin t’bed yet.”

“Well _I_ am,” Sammy said shortly.  He walked towards the set of twin beds, at the other end of the room.

Their dad shrugged.  “Suit yourself,” he said to Sammy’s back.  “Dean, you wanna watch anythin in particular?”

“No dad, whatever you want,” Dean said.  He came and sat down on the couch beside him.  Glanced over at Sammy, who was changing into his pajamas.  His dad flicked the remote through the channels idly.  “Want another beer?” he asked Dean.

“Sure.”

His dad yawned.  “Help yourself then.”

Dean retrieved another beer from the fridge and cracked it open.  Sat back down on the couch beside his dad, putting his feet up on the coffee table.  The two of them watched TV silently.  Dean saw Sammy out of the corner of his eye, going to the washroom to brush his teeth and then climbing silently into his bed.

Their dad started to doze.  His head was thrown back against the couch, mouth open, the empty glass of whiskey clutched in his hand.  Dean looked at him, and then at the bottle on the floor.  The Dewars was two thirds gone.  Dean turned off the TV.  Then he stood up, looked at his dad, considering him.  If he woke his dad up, they could pull out the mattress from the fold out couch. 

Nah.  Waking up his dad could be a problem, at this point. 

Dean sighed.  Then he bent and plucked the glass from his dad’s hand.  Picked up the Dewars from the floor and put both the bottle and the glass on the table.  Went back to his dad and pulled off his boots, not without a certain amount of struggle.   His dad grunted, but didn’t wake. 

Flushed with effort and also some aggravation from the boots, Dean put his hands on his dad’s shoulders and tipped him over onto his side.  He grasped his dad’s ankles in both hands and hauled his legs up from the floor.  Pulled out the pillows from the back of the couch to give his dad more room, and shoved one of them under his dad’s head.  Looked for blankets, but they were still tucked in around the couch’s folded away mattress, inaccessible.   Dean brought over his dad’s leather jacket and covered him with it.

Then he checked the lock on the motel room door.  Refreshed the lines of salt on the room’s threshold and window sills.  Turned off the lights.  His dad had started to snore.

After visiting the washroom, Dean took off his own clothes in the dark, leaving them in a pile.  He glanced over at Sammy, a bundled, unmoving shape.  Dean checked the location of his knife and gun, then crawled into his own bed, drawing the covers over his head in an attempt to block out the rough, rumbling snores from the other end of the room.  If his dad started to dream, this was going to be a long night.

“…Dean?”

Dean sighed again.  “I thought you were asleep.”

“Who could sleep through _that?”_

 _“_ Well try,” Dean said shortly. 

Sammy was silent.  But then Dean heard him get up.  He uncovered his head and opened his eyes.  Sammy was standing beside his bed. 

“Lemme in.”

“No, Sammy, forget it.  Not while dad is here.”

“He’s passed out for the night.  He’ll never notice.”

“ _No,_ Sammy forget it.  Go back to bed.”

Sammy grasped a corner of Dean’s blankets and raised it.  Then he levered himself into Dean’s bed, scrunching down beside him.  He settled his head on Dean’s pillow.

“Sammy!” Dean hissed at him.  “Get outta here!”

“No.” 

Dean shoved at him.  “Sammy…I mean it.  Out!”

Sammy’s body was firmly wedged into Dean’s bed.  He pushed back at Dean’s side with his hips.  Wriggled.  “Move over Dean.  Gimme some room.”

“No!” Dean said.  “What’re you doin this for Sammy?  You’re being a pain!”

Sammy wasn’t going anywhere.  He looped both arms around Dean’s waist and put his face against Dean’s chest.  Didn’t say anything.

Dean gave up.  The only options at this point seemed to be springing out of bed himself, or shoving Sammy onto the floor.   He shifted himself over to give Sammy room, curving an arm around Sammy’s back.  “What’s the matter Sammity-Sam?” he said.  “Everythin all right?”

“No,” Sammy said into his chest.   “Nothin’s alright.  How c’n you ask that?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re livin out of crap motels, sleepin in the same room with a snoring drunk,” Sammy said in a stifled voice.  “Changin schools every second month, seems like, or parked at Bobby’s.  I hate it Dean.  I hate my life.”

Dean felt a sharp hurt clench his stomach.  “But what about me then, Sammy?” he asked quietly.  “I’m part of your life, aren’t I?  Big part, I thought.  You hate me too?”

Sammy was crying.  Dean felt his tears against his skin.  “No,” he said.  “You’re the only good thing.  But I wish you’d get out, Dean.  Leave all this.  And take me with you.”

Dean thought of their unconscious dad, snoring on the couch, balanced on the edge of nightmare.  Sammy, crying in his arms.  Their small, shabby room, guarded against the monsters in the dark with no more than scribbled chalk symbols and salt.  He felt tears rising.  Bent his head against Sammy’s hair.  “I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered, choked.  “I’m sorry.”

Sammy didn’t answer immediately.  But then he moved his face closer against Dean, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s collarbone.  “S’okay, Dean,” he said softly.  “It’s not your fault.”

Dean felt his expression twisting.  Grief was welling up inside of him like water coming out of the ground.  He shook his head, trying to tamp it down.  Clenched his arm around Sammy, involuntarily. 

Then he felt Sammy’s own arms tighten around his waist.  His brother started to stroke his back.  “S’okay, Dean,” he said again.  Dean listened to him, distracted from his tears by the tone in Sammy’s voice.  It sounded awfully familiar…what did it sound like?  Oh, yeah, he realized.  It sounded like him.  Like his own voice, when he spoke to Sammy.  When he told him that everything would be okay.  Dean laughed softly.

“What’s so funny?” Sammy asked.

“Nothin,” Dean said.  He felt the weight of Sammy’s head, resting on him.  That big, sensitive brain, filled with Sammy thoughts.  Dean turned his lips into Sammy’s silky hair and kissed him.

Sammy was still.  Then Dean felt him raise his head.  He kissed Dean back shyly, on the throat.

Dean felt his brother’s lips open against his skin like a brand.  He found himself kissing Sammy’s hair, his forehead, stroking his hands over Sammy’s back.  Sammy had leaned into him.  He was stroking Dean in return, putting his hands up under Dean’s shirt and running his palms over the bare skin. _“Dean,”_ he whispered.  He kissed Dean’s throat again.

Dean was shuddering.  He felt himself gasping for air, like he’d been running.  All the blood in his body had pooled in his groin and he was achingly, agonizingly hard.  Had Sammy noticed?  He was kissing Sammy’s face, the smooth skin.  Then he grabbed Sammy’s shoulders and pushed him roughly away.  “Stop it!” he said. 

Sammy stared at him.  His eyes were wide, black pools in the dark room.  His mouth was open.  Dean heard Sammy’s breath, whispering rapidly between his lips.  “What?” he asked.  Dean shook him.  “You gotta _stop this_ Sam,” he said.  “Stop it right now.  Get outta my bed.  And don’t come back anymore.”

Tears were in Sammy’s eyes.  “Why?” he whispered.

“Because you’re turning me into a perv, that’s why,” Dean said, harshly.  “And it’s gotta stop.  Now get out!”

Sammy was crying.  “I’m not,” he said.  “You’re not turning into a perv Dean, don’t say that.  Lemme stay.  I won’t kiss you anymore, I promise.”  He bent his head towards Dean, trying to snuggle against him.  Dean felt Sammy’s stomach brush his groin.  A shock wave of pleasure ran through him.  He grabbed his brother by the shoulders and shook him, hard.  “No, Sammy, I mean it!”  He pushed Sammy violently away, using his full strength.  Sammy fell out of the bed, landing hard on the floor.  “Ouch!” he gasped.

Dean leaned over the edge of the bed and looked at Sammy on the floor.  Sammy had curled himself up into a ball.  He was crying.

“Sammy?”

Sammy didn’t reply.

“Sammy?” Dean asked.  “You alright?”

Sammy was silent.

Dean climbed out of bed and knelt beside Sammy, on the floor.  He brushed Sammy’s hair away, where it covered his face.  “Sammy?  You okay?  Talk to me.”

Sammy twisted his head away from Dean’s reach.  “Don’t touch me!” he hissed.  “Fuck off!”

Dean put his hands on Sammy’s shoulders, trying to move him.  “C’mon Sammy, you can’t stay on the floor like that.  Get up.”

Sammy batted at him.  “Get the fuck away from me Dean.”  He was crying.

“Sammy, you can’t stay here.  You gotta get up.  C’mon.”  Dean made to lift him off the floor.   Sammy slapped him away.  “What you doin that for?” he spat.  “Aren’t you worried about bein a _pervert?”_

Dean dropped his hands.  “Sammy, I’m sorry,” he said.  “I shouldn’t’ve said that.  Okay?  Now can you get up now?  Please?”

Sammy looked up at him from his place on the floor.  “I’ll get up if I can come back to bed with you,” he said.  Looked at Dean.

Dean shook his head.  “You can’t Sammy, I’m sorry.  That’s over.”

Sammy’s eyes were glimmering.  “But I want to,” he whispered.

Dean closed his eyes.  He thought of Sammy’s warm body, lying alongside his, his brother breathing softly against him.  The two of them, all those years, their arms around each other in the dark.  And he’d loved it, he realized, he’d cherished it, like secret candy.  A sweetness in his life, and in Sammy’s life too, one of the few good sweet things in this harsh life their dad expected of them. 

But it was over.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean said.  He started to stroke Sammy’s hair again, then stopped.  Stared at his brother, helplessly.

Sammy looked back at him.  Then he got himself up from the floor and went back to his own bed.  Climbed in silently, without looking at Dean.  Pulled the covers up over his head.

Dean was standing beside Sammy’s bed, hovering.  “Sam?” he said.

“Go ‘way, Dean,” Sammy said.  “Lemme alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, hating himself.

“Sure.”  Sammy’s voice was cold.

Dean climbed back into his bed.  He curled his arms around himself.

Their dad continued snoring loudly, from the other end of the room.


	9. Chapter 9

It had always been about Dean. 

His magnificent big brother with the green jellybean eyes, his smile like sunlight flashing, the sun in his life, Dean. 

His brother, who looked out for him. 

Who stood protectively between him and their dark dad, lost in his whiskey, drunk on dreams of vengeance and grief.

Dean who’d taken care of him since the beginning of memory.

Who’d made a place, somehow, for them to live, the two of them, a patch of living grass on the devastated battlefield of their dad’s obsession.   

Four year old Sammy, lying on a hard scratchy carpet, furiously crying.  Their dad, furious.

“Jesus H. Christ.  Christ!  Put a plug in it, _goddamnit,_ Sammy!”  Their dad, looming over him, a mountain with furious, bloodshot eyes (hungover, no doubt). 

Dean crouching beside him.  “Sammy.  Shhhh.  Shhhh.  What’s the matter Sammy?”  Dean’s face close to his, concerned, behind him the dark looming shape of their dad.

Sammy crawling over to his brother, putting his face into Dean’s shirt, wailing.  Dean’s arms around him.  “Shhh, Sammy, geez, what’s the matter?  It can’t be _that_ bad.”

Their dad’s voice.  “It’s _always_ somethin, with him.  I’m goin out Dean, another minute of this and my head’s gonna explode.  I’m gettin us lunch.  You want anything?  Burgers?”

“Sure dad,” Dean not turning around. 

Their dad gone, the door slamming.  Sammy sobbing, his face buried in Dean’s soft flannel shirt, Dean’s arms around him, the cozy smell of Dean. 

“God, Sammy,” Dean’s voice.  “You keep cryin like that you’re gonna make _me_ cry.  You don’t want that, do ya?”  Lightly tickling Sammy’s sides.  Sammy protesting, growling against Dean’s stomach.  “Boo hoo,” Dean said, tickling.  “Boo hoo.  I’m cryin now, Sammy see?”  Sammy starting to giggle, in spite of himself.  Dean’s lips against his neck.  “Buh buh buh.”  Sammy giggling.  “Buh buh buh.”

“Stop Dean, that tickles!”  Sammy giggling.

“Oh it’s talkin now.”  Dean’s voice, teasing.  His arms were holding Sammy gently.  “Feelin better Sammysam?”

“…Yeah.”  Sammy leaning against Dean, his eyes closed.  Feeling peace wash through him in a cool wave.  The solid weight of Dean, breathing.

“Okay Sammy let’s get up.”  Dean gently pulling at him.  “You wanna glass of milk?”

“Okay.”  Sammy got to his feet.

“Come siddown.”  Sammy sat at the table.  Dean’s head was in the fridge.  He pulled out the carton of milk, poured a glass, put it down in front of Sammy.  Peered into his face.  “What a mess.”  Running a thumb over Sammy’s cheek, smeared with tears and carpet dust.  “Let’s get you washed up.”  A damp dishtowel, rubbing gently at Sammy’s face.

“Ow,” Sammy protesting, turning his face away. 

“It doesn’t hurt, dumbass.”  Dean put the towel down.  “Drink your milk.”

Sammy drank his milk obediently.  Dean was watching him.  “You wanna do some colourin?” Dean asked.

“Will you colour with me?”  Sammy replied.

“Sure.”  Dean got out the colouring books and crayons from their cardboard box of toys.  “You want Spider Man or the Incredible Hulk?”

“Incredible Hulk.”

“Okay.”  Dean gave Sammy the Incredible Hulk colouring book and took Spider Man for himself.   He sat down across the table from Sammy and put the crayons in a pile between them.  The two of them started to colour. 

Sammy was filling in the Hulk’s green skin, concentrating on staying within the lines.  Heard Dean’s voice. “What were you cryin about anyway, Sammy?”

Sammy ducked his head over his book.  “Dunno.”

“Sure you do,” Dean said.

Sammy swallowed.  “I lost Munch,” he said, without meeting Dean’s eyes (Munch was a birthday present from Dean and Sammy’s absolute favourite toy).

Dean put down his crayons.  Sammy darted a glance at him.  Dean didn’t look happy.   “Lost _Munch?”_

Sammy felt tears welling up.  “Yeah.” 

“Where?”

“I _dunno_ Dean, I lost him!”  Sammy was crying again.  He stared down at his partially coloured picture, ashamed.  Then he heard Dean get up.  His brother walked around to Sammy’s side of the table and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t cry Sammy, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.  Where were you playin with him the last time?”

“The bed.”

“Okay, let’s look there then.”  Dean walked over to their bed.  Sammy hesitated a moment, then followed him.  He watched as Dean methodically pulled off the bed’s covers and sheets and shook them out.  He tossed their pillows on the floor.  He looked under the bed, then climbed up on the mattress and put his hand between the edge of the mattress and the headboard.  He was frowning with concentration.  “I think I feel somethin…here!”  His hand came up holding a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex.  “Here he is, Sammy!”  Dean said triumphantly, smiling.

Sammy ran over, overjoyed.  “Munch!”  Dean handed the dinosaur to him.  Sammy received it, beaming all over his face.  “Thanks Dean!”

“Uh huh.” 

Sammy looked at his brother.  Then ran at him, throwing his arms around Dean and butting his head into Dean’s stomach.  Dean fell backwards onto the bed, Sammy landing hard on top of him.  “Oof,” Dean said.  But he sounded pleased.  He ran his hand over Sammy’s hair.  “You sure are a dumbass Sammy.”

“No I’m not!”  Sammy spoke into Dean’s stomach.

“Well what would _you_ call it, then?”  But Dean’s voice was smiling, Sammy could tell.  He lay happily on Dean’s stomach.  His big brother, the rescuer of Munch.  Then Dean’s voice again.  “But Sammy, you can’t cry like that okay?  Especially around dad.  He hates that you know?  And you’re not a baby anymore.”  Dean sounded serious now.

Sammy’s eyes were closed against Dean’s shirt.  “I c’nt help it,” he said absently.

“Yes you can.”  Dean’s voice, serious.  “And you gotta, okay?  You gotta try.”  There was a raw note in his voice now, Sammy noticed.  It made his stomach hurt, that sound in his brother’s voice.

“Does it make dad mad at me?” Sammy asked.   But he already knew the answer.

Dean was quiet.  Then said.  “Tell you what.  Next time you feel like that you come ask me.  You say, `Dean, I’m about to bawl all over the place.’  An I’ll help you fix whatever it is before that happens.  Like findin Munch, see?”

Sammy glanced up at him.  Looked into his brother’s bright green eyes, now watching him gravely.  “But what if you’re not around?” he asked.  “When I feel like cryin.”

Dean smiled.  “I’ll always be around Sammy, don’t you worry.  So…c’n you promise me?”  His voice had dropped again.

Sammy put his head back against Dean’s stomach.  “I guess.”  Felt Dean’s hand in his hair.  “Great,” his brother said.  His fingers had dug into Sammy’s hair, rubbing against Sammy’s scalp, tingling.  Sammy sighed with pleasure.  “Now let’s make the bed before dad gets back,” Dean said.  “He sees this he’ll freak.”

“Okay.”  Sammy said agreeably.  He helped Dean put their bed back together.  Then followed him back to the table.  The colouring books.

That’s how their dad found them when he returned, carrying a bag of food.  His two sons, quietly colouring, Sammy with that toy dinosaur he carried with him everywhere, on the table by his elbow.

He walked over to Dean.   Ruffled his hair.  “Thanks for calming him down son,” he said to Dean.  Glanced briefly at Sammy.  Then put his large hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed.  “Thanks son,” he said again.  “I owe you.”

Sammy saw Dean lean back against their dad’s side.  He’d closed his eyes and in that moment his brother looked terribly sad.  But it was only for a moment.  Then Dean opened his eyes again.  “Sure dad,” he said.

Their dad had moved away, started unpacking their lunch.  Said casually, “We’ll drive to the shootin range, after we eat.  You c’n try out your new 22.  Sound good?”

Dean was looking at their dad, quiet.  He’d slumped in his chair, Sammy saw, like the strength had gone out of him.  But then he sat up, straightening his shoulders.  Smiled.  “Okay!” he said brightly.

Their dad smiled back. 

Then Dean glanced at Sammy.  “But what about Sammy?  He’s goin to need a nap.”

“We’ll put a blanket down for him,” their dad said.  “Or he c’n sleep in the car.”

Sammy didn’t like that.  “ _I_ wanna try the 22,” he said, to make a point.

Their dad smiled at him.  “The kick’ll knock you over SamSam,” their dad said.  “You gotta grow a little bit.  Get big like Dean here.  Then we’ll start you off.”

Dean was smiling at Sammy too.  “But he c’n use the BB gun, can’t he dad?”

Their dad shrugged.  “Yeah, probably.  If he wants.  You wanna try the BB gun, Sammy?”

“…Sure,” Sammy said, not very sure at all.  He looked at his brother.  “Dean?”

“Don’t worry Sammy,” Dean said.  “It’ll be great.”

Sammy glanced between Dean and their dad.  They were both smiling at him, with wide approving smiles.  He smiled back, tentatively. 

Then he looked at Dean again.  Saw his brother’s green eyes, gazing at him.

Dean must have looked at him like that before because Sam wasn’t surprised by it, received that look like something familiar.  But this would be his first memory of it, the memory he would carry with him. 

His first memory of Dean’s special look, that look in his eyes as he gazed at Sam, resonating forward, echoing.  Resident under all the other times Dean would look at Sam like that.  Or those times when he didn’t.

Dean’s eyes.  Taking in the sight of Sam like he was a treasure, just discovered, and by Dean only.  A perfect find, Sammy _(and his)_. 

And Sam, enclosed by that gaze.  Dean’s green gaze, surrounding Sam like a forest, dark green, primeval.  Sam lost in it.

And then to see something else.  To see Dean glance between their smiling dad (their dad, trying his best) and Sammy, with a look of painful happiness _(my family)_.  Four year old Sammy seeing that also.

The sound of his own voice, speaking. 

“Yay!”  Sammy said.  “I get to shoot the BB gun!”  He looked at Dean and smiled, using his brother’s bright smile.  Felt it cover his face like a cloth.

Their dad nodding, pleased.

Dean’s eyes, gazing at him.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean wasn’t always nice.

Sammy and him had their share of fights.  And Dean could be fierce, sometimes.  He yelled at Sammy, sometimes.  Spoke harshly to him.  Disciplined him.  Hit him sometimes.  Smacked his face.  Or his butt.

Sammy didn’t like it when Dean got mad at him.  He’d get upset.  Would cry, sometimes.  But he never protested, really, Dean disciplining him.  Smacking him.  Never argued that Dean couldn’t do it.  That he didn’t have the right.

Sammy was okay with Dean being the one to do it.  Because there was always the alternative, waiting.

For a misstep, from either of them.

Their dad, gripping eight year old Sammy by the elbow, his belt doubled up around his fist.  “Stay still dammit!”

Sammy screeching.  “No!  Lemme alone!”  Yanking against his dad’s strength, struggling hard to get away.   His dad yanking him back, wrenching his shoulder painfully.

Sammy sinking to the floor, cradling his shoulder, crying.  His dad’s arm descending again, heavily, his belt lashing across Sammy’s butt, burning.  Sammy shrieking, struggling to get up.  His dad, slapping him down.  The belt, burning.  Sammy shrieking, struggling.

Dean running at their dad, grabbing him around the waist.  “Dad!  Stop it!”

Their dad snarling.  “Let go of me Dean!”  Trying to throw Dean off.  Dean clinging to him.  “No!  Dad, c’mon!”

“Let go of me Dean, damn you!  Your brother’s gotta learn.”  Their dad, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and tossing him to the floor.  Coming after Sammy again.

The belt descending, Sammy shrieking.  Their dad’s arm raised to deliver another blow.  Dean picking himself up and flinging himself on top of Sammy, just in time to receive the full force of their dad’s belt across his back.

Dean crying out, cringing under the blow.  Sammy shrieking louder at the sound of Dean’s cry.  Their dad straightening up, staring, looking down at his sons with his belt loose in his hand.

Dean staring back at him, tears in his eyes.  His arms around his brother, huddled under him, on the floor.   Sammy peering up at their dad from under Dean’s body.  Staring up at him with hatred, through his own tears.

Their dad, setting his jaw.  “Get off him Dean.  He’s gotta learn to take his punishment like a man.  Stop treatin him like a goddamn baby.”

“No, dad, he’s had enough.  C’mon.”

“He hasn’t had near what’s comin to him.  He’s gotta learn Dean, and you’re not doin him any favours by steppin in.  Now get out of my way.  And I mean it.”

Dean staying where he was, his arms around Sammy.  “You hit him you’re hittin me too.  And _I_ mean it.”  Blinking away his tears.  Staring up at their dad, his own jaw set.

“You’re disrespectin me Dean,” their dad said warningly.

“No,” Dean said.  “I’m just sayin, you hit him, you’re gonna have to go through me.  That’s all.”

Their dad stared at him.  Then he raised his arm.  Dean looked back at him defiantly.  He didn’t move.  Then Sammy’s voice.  “Leave him alone!”

Both Dean and their dad turning to look at Sammy, surprised.

Sammy wriggling out from under Dean’s body.  Standing in front of Dean, staring up at their dad venomously.  “You leave ‘im alone!” he hissed.  “Or I’ll _kill you!”_

Both Dean and their dad looking at Sammy, taken aback.  Taking in the sight of Sammy’s slight, small body, quivering.  At the pale, tear stained face under a mop of tangled hair.  Sammy’s eyes were glistening, black with rage.

Their dad lowered his arm.  Regarded Sammy thoughtfully, the belt forgotten in his hand.  Then his lips twitched.  “Kill me, huh,” he said.  “How’re you plannin to do _that_ Sammity-Sam?”

Sammy wasn’t smiling.  “I’ll kill you in your sleep,” he said in a tight voice.  “My knife’ll go right into your throat.  Bet you won’t even wake up for it.”

Their dad was staring at him (and so was Dean).  Then he laughed shortly.  Shook his head.  “Bet you would too,” he said.  “You’re a fierce little shit, aren’t you Sammy?  When you wanna be.”  The anger had left his voice.

Sammy watched him, silent, still wary.   Behind him, Dean slowly got to his feet.  Their dad looked down at the two of them, his boys.  Then he shrugged.

Said to Dean, “I’m lettin you have your way son, this time.  But this is the only time, so don't get cocky.  Sam's gotta learn that if he doesn’t mind, he takes the consequences.  Just like you learned.” 

Sammy was listening to this, felt a wave of rage overtake him.  His dad wasn’t going to give him the belt again.  Not ever again.  Not one more time.  “I’m not gonna take  _nothin,_ from you!”  Sammy hissed.  He raised his chin.

Their dad’s eyes flashed back to him.  He went pale with anger.  Dean stared at Sammy, horrified.  “Sammy!”

Then their dad grabbed Sammy’s arm, wrenched him around, raising his hand with the belt.  Sammy was writhing, growling at him, bucking his body violently in an attempt to escape.  Dean made a futile grab for both of them.

“Sammy!  Stop!  You’ll hurt yourself!  Dad!”

Their dad had flung Sammy to the floor, Sammy landing with a thump.  He raised his arm.  Sammy scrambled up out of his reach.  He straightened and faced their dad silently, his face set with fury. 

“Come here,” their dad said in a low, cold tone.  “We’re finishin this.”

“We’re not finishin nothin,” Sammy replied, his voice equally cold. 

Dean glanced rapidly between them.  Sammy’s stomach twisted at the sight of his brother’s raw eyes, watching Sammy and their dad stare at each other with identical expressions.  Like they were ready to kill each other.  

“Dad, c’mon,” Dean said.  “He’s upset, he didn’t mean it.  And anyway, you said you were lettin it go!”

Their dad glanced at Dean and then his eyes locked back on Sammy.  “That's enough Dean,” he said briefly.  “I’ve had it with you too.  Did you _hear_ what your brother was sayin to me just now?  This attitude of his is _your_ fault.  Coddlin him.  Makin him feel he can get away with _anything,_ around here.  Now get over here, Sammy.  You’re takin your beatin and that’s all there is to it.” 

“No,” Sammy said.  He felt a crazy freedom rising in his body.  He _did_ feel like killing his dad right now, he realized, could do it easily.  Could do it tonight, kneel over his dad’s drunken, snoring form and slide that knife right in.  And he could see a matching desire in his dad’s eyes too, the need to stomp Sammy down.  Get that brat out of the way.

They got each other, alright, him and his dad.  Understood each other just fine.

His dad stepped forward.  Sammy crouched, feeling his lips curl away from his teeth in a snarl.  If his dad hit him again there would be blood.

Dean stepped between them.  He faced their dad.  “No dad.  This isn’t happenin.  He’s not gonna take it can’t you see that?  You keep on like this you’re gonna really hurt him.”

“Maybe that’s what he needs,” their dad said grimly. 

“No dad, c’mon.”  Dean’s voice was shaking.  Sammy could hear tears in it.  He met his dad’s eyes, over Dean’s head.   Sammy knew what he was about to do was really stupid.  If Dean saw it he’d be super pissed.  But Sammy did it anyway.  He looked into his dad’s eyes and smiled.

His dad stared at him, shocked.  Then his face went black.  He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and flung his brother out of his way like Dean weighed nothing.  Advanced on Sammy and slammed him to the floor, his hand on the back of Sammy’s neck.  Sammy was shrieking, kicking, struggling to get up.  His dad held him down mercilessly, his fingers digging like iron into Sammy’s neck.  He began whipping Sammy again, the belt lashing down on Sammy’s back, butt and legs.  Sammy was shrieking with rage and pain.  “I hate you!  I’ll kill you!”  He writhed around, trying to find something to bite.

His dad was shouting.  “You goddamn disrespectful little brat!”  The belt lashing him.  And he heard Dean too, through a red haze, shouting at the top of his voice, “Dad!  Stop it!”  His brother’s arms tugging at their dad’s waist, Dean trying to put himself in between them again.  Their dad flinging him away. 

Sammy was sobbing under the blows, despite himself.  But he kept struggling and snarling, not about to give in.  Let his dad kill him.  He’d be sorry.

Another lash.  Sammy cried out.  And suddenly, a dull, hollow thunk.  Silence.

Then - “Ow!” his dad was on his feet, his hand going to the back of his head.  He whirled around.  Dean stood there, in his hand one of the motel's battered metal kitchen pots.

“Dean, goddamnit!”

Dean stared at their dad, his jaw set.  “You gotta stop dad, you’re gonna really hurt him, you keep hittin him like that.  You gotta calm down.”

“You…hit me,” their dad said, disbelievingly.  “First Sammy and now _you?_ ”

Tears were in Dean’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, dad.”

Their dad stepped forward and grabbed the pot out of Dean’s hand.  Threw it across the room.  Then he put his hands on Dean’s shoulders and shook him once, hard.  Dean stood under his hands quietly.

Their dad released Dean, looked down at him.  Dean met his eyes.  He was quiet.  “Fine,” their dad said, eventually, looking at him.  “You’re so eager to stand up for your brother you can take the rest of his punishment.  It’ll be a good lesson for both of you.  Bend over the table.”

Dean looked back at him silently.  Then he turned and walked woodenly over to the table.  Sammy stared at him, frozen.  Dean didn’t look at him.  He bent himself flat over the table’s surface, turning his face to one side.

Their dad was behind him, the belt doubled up in his hand.  “Drop’em.”

Dean undid his pants and pulled them down, letting them puddle around his ankles.   “Shorts too,” their dad said.  “You’re gettin this bare-assed.”  Dean pulled down his under-shorts and let them fall, exposing his butt.  Sammy stared up at his brother from his place on the floor, still frozen, wordless. 

“Get up and c’mere Sammy,” their dad said.  “I want you watchin.  This was your fault.”

Sammy found his voice.  “No!” he said.  “You’re not doin this.  I won’t let you!”  He got to his feet and headed towards the metal pot, thrown down in the corner of the room.  If Dean could whack their dad over the head, so could he.

But then Dean’s voice.  “Sammy!”  Sammy stopped, stared at his brother.  Dean was glaring at him from his place on the table.  “Stop bein such a fuckin idiot!  You’re just makin things _worse,_ like you always do!  Now get over there!”

Sammy looked at his brother, distressed.  Dean was crying, tears running freely from his eyes.  He glared at Sammy furiously.

“But-“

“Get _over there_ Sammy!” Dean shouted at him.  His voice was hoarse.  “Now!”

Sammy turned and went to stand beside their dad.  Who looked down at him briefly and nodded.  Then said to Dean, “You ready?”

“Yes sir.” Dean’s voice was muffled.

Their dad raised his arm, then lashed his belt down on Dean’s butt with shocking force.  Dean cringed under the blow.  Sammy saw his hands curling into fists on the table.  A red mark had surfaced on Dean’s skin.  Their dad raised his arm again.  Another blow, landing with a loud crack.  Dean cringing, wincing, a red mark surfacing.

Their dad raised his arm again.  Sammy was crying.  “Dad,” he said.  “Stop.” 

Their dad brought his belt down on Dean’s butt with even greater force.  Dean jerked, made a muffled sound.  Their dad turned to Sammy.  “What did you say?”

“Stop it, dad,” Sammy said again.  “Please.”  He was crying.

Their dad turned, lashed his belt down on Dean’s butt again.  Dean cried out this time.  Sammy was crying.  “Dad!”

Their dad hit Dean again.  Another cry from his brother.  Dean was cringing in pain, his butt now covered with bright red marks.  Sammy could see his hands clenched helplessly against the surface of the table.  Their dad turned to Sammy.  “I’m not hearin the right words out of you,” he said.  “And until I hear them, this isn’t stoppin.”  He lashed Dean again.  Dean cried out.

“Dad!”  Sammy was sobbing.  “C’mon!  Please!”

“Wrong words Sam.”  His dad raised his arm again.  Another lash of the belt.  A stifled sound from Dean.  Sammy glanced frantically at him.  Dean’s face was pressed against the table, contorted with pain.

“Dad!” Sammy said.  “I’m sorry!”

His dad looked at him.  “That’s not good enough, Sammy.”   He raised his arm to strike Dean again. 

“Dad,” Sammy said.  “Please – I’m really sorry for what I said!  I won’t do it anymore.  I’m really sorry!  Please!”

His dad paused, looked down at him, consideringly.  “And?” he said.

Sammy was confused.  “And what?”

His dad shrugged.  Turned and lashed Dean again, the belt landing on Dean’s reddened butt with a loud crack.  Dean cried out.

Sammy was shrieking.  “Dad!”

His dad turned to him.  “Maybe you forgot,” he said.  “Why you were bein punished in the first place.”

Sammy was sobbing.  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” he said brokenly.  “Next time I’ll do what you ask.”

His dad nodded.  “You’ll do it _when_ I ask, _exactly_ how I ask,” he said.  “No excuses.  No complainin.  No `forgetting.’”

“No,” Sammy said, sobbing.

His dad stared at him silently.  Sammy stared back, tears running from his eyes.  His furious anger at his dad had disappeared, replaced by fear for Dean.  Their dad considered him for another moment, then started threading his belt back through the loops in his pants.  “That was harder than it needed to be,” his eyes on Sammy.  “Because of your attitude.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry sir.”  Sammy’s voice was subdued.

His dad nodded at him.  “Uh huh.”  Raised his voice.  “Dean, you can get up now.”  Kept his eyes on Sammy.

Dean got himself up off the table and pulled up his shorts and pants.  He walked haltingly over to Sammy and their dad.  His face was blotched with tears and his eyes were red. 

“I think you have somethin to say to me too, Dean,” their dad said, still staring at Sammy.

“I’m sorry I had to hit you,” Dean said.

Their dad looked at him.  “What?”

“I’m sorry I had to hit you,” Dean said again in a low voice.  “I wouldn’t’ve done it, if I hadn’t been scared you’d hurt Sammy.”

Their dad was quiet.  Then he said, “That wasn’t the answer I was looking for, Dean.”

“No,” said Dean.  “But that’s what you’re gettin.”

The three of them were silent.  It seemed to Sammy like they’d all turned into stick figures, their feet fastened to the floor, wooden.

Then their dad said, “Okay.  Fine.  Tell you what.  Dean?  I’m makin you responsible for him.  You’re gonna see that Sam obeys.  If he doesn’t, _you’re_ gonna be the one to punish him.  And if I have to step in again, you’re _both_ gonna be punished.  And trust me, you’re not going to want that.  You understand me?”

Dean was looking at him, pale.  “Yes sir.”

Their dad turned to Sammy.  “And you’re gonna mind your brother.  I have had my _fill_ of you, Sammy, got that?  You’re gonna do what Dean says, and your brother has my permission to whip your ass if you don’t.  I don’t want to see or hear any more crap out of you.  You understand me Sammy?”

Sammy glanced at Dean.  Dean met his eyes, then looked away.  Sammy looked at his brother’s white, tearstained face.  Then said, “Yes sir.”

Their dad turned his eyes back on Dean.  “And if I find out you’re lettin him off easy, he’s gonna get my belt.  And if he won’t hold still for it like a man I’m gonna tie him down for it like an animal.  And then I’m whippin _you._ Do we understand each other?”

Dean looked at him.  “Yes.”

Their dad frowned.  “Yes, _what?”_

Dean looked at him grimly.  “Yes we understand each other.  Sir.”

Their dad nodded.  “Good.  Then you c’n get started with Sammy right now.  What happens, after you boys get the belt?”

Dean looked down.  “We stand in the corner.”

“That’s right.  Now I’m lettin you out of that today, but not _him._ Sam’s punishment is not over.  So what’s next?”

Both Dean and Sammy looked at him.

“What do you have to say to Sammy, Dean?” their dad asked.

Dean swallowed.  Then said, “Sammy, go stand in the corner.”

Sammy’s mouth dropped open.  “But-“

“Do it, Sammy, now!”  Dean’s voice was harsh.  “Get over there’n _stay_ there until I tell you you c’n leave!  Go!”

Tears were in Sammy’s eyes.  He looked at Dean, then walked over to a corner of the room, faced into it.  Heard Dean’s voice.  “Put your head against the wall.”

Sammy leaned his forehead against the wall.  Tears welled out of his eyes and ran down his face. 

Then he heard their dad’s voice.  “Very good, son.  And that’s what I expect from you from now on.  Understand?”

Dean’s low voice.  “I hate this, dad.”

His dad’s voice, dismissive.  “I don’t like it either.  But it has to be done, Dean.  We can’t have Sammy growin up like a wild animal and if he’s not gonna mind me, it’s gonna be you.  We don’t have a choice.”

Dean said, tearfully, “But he _does_ mind you, dad.  He listens to you.  Why do you think he doesn’t?”

Their dad.  “The day that kid listens to a word I say is the day I’ll be surprised.  It’s _you_ he pays attention to, not me.  Always has been.”

There was a silence.

Then his dad’s voice, again.  “I’m relying on you son.”

“Yes dad.”  Dean answered, subdued.

Another silence. 

Then, “I’m gettin us dinner,” his dad said.  “How’s your butt?”

“Hurts,” Dean said.

“You c’n lie on the bed,” his dad said.  “If you’re too sore to sit at the table, I’ll bring you a plate.”

“Thanks dad.”

“Sure.”

Sammy stood in the corner, listening to the sounds of their dad rattling around in their tiny kitchen.  The smell of burgers, frying.  He stood there until he heard the clink of plates on the table. 

And then Dean’s voice, releasing him.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam was crying.

Dean had just yelled at him.  Whipped him with his belt.  Put him in the corner. 

Sam wanted to die. 

He was too old for this.

And also, it wasn’t _fair._ He’d thought things would be different.

He’d thought…that Dean would do what he wanted.  Keep their deal.  After all, _he_ had (for years, _years,_ his whole _life,_ couldn’t Dean see that?)

And he’d thought…that Dean would get it.  Get what Sam wanted.  Get what Sam _was._   And what he wanted.  Had the right to want.  Because of Dean, because of what Sam was, because of him. 

His.

Everything was all about Dean.

Couldn’t Dean see that?

Yeah, he could.  Dean saw that, alright. 

He just wasn’t about to admit it.

This was just so _unfair._   Dean had done this to him.  He’d done this to Sam, and it was his problem now.  His responsibility to deal with, like the rest of this goddamn mess. 

Dean kissing him on the cheek.

Afterwards, Sam pressing his fingers against it, secretly, that spot on his cheek where Dean’s lips had been.  He could still feel them, opening against his cheek, supple and smooth, his brother’s mouth against him.  Leaving behind a seared tingle of nerves, like the shock of frozen metal, pressed against Sam’s skin. 

He would press his fingers against that spot, that invisible mark, made by Dean.

And close his eyes, seeing Dean’s eyes again, against his closed eyelids.

Dean looking at Sam like he was everything.  His world, contained within the sight of Sam.  And Sam, opening under the touch of that green gaze like a field of dandelions under the warm spring sun.

Sam would be walking, carrying his books, in the school hallways, along town streets, in the aisles of stores, and suddenly that look would rise up before him again, blocking out everything else. 

And he would stop, closing his eyes tightly, hardly breathing.  Press his fingers to his cheek.

_Dean._

Sometimes, lying in bed with his brother, Sam had this vision of himself sinking beneath Dean’s skin, sinking into Dean, becoming part of his brother’s body, swimming in Dean’s blood like a river, huddling under Dean’s ribcage like a fort.  Warm and safe.  Contained.   And he would press himself close to Dean, as close as possible, wrapping his arms and legs around Dean, trying to make this true.

And he would feel Dean respond, feel his brother’s muscles and skin opening to him, his voice murmuring sleepily.  An arm thrown around him.  And this was where Sam wanted to stay forever, pressed next to Dean, where he _would_ stay, except for fear of their dad.  Not afraid for himself, fuck that drunk and what did Sam have to lose there anyway?  But out of fear for Dean and the price that Dean would pay, if their dad ever found out. 

That Dean had disobeyed their dad.  About this.

So Sam was careful.  And their dad never found out.

And he was careful too, not to get Dean into trouble for anything else.  Dean was not going to get any more whippings, because of him. 

Because if that happened, Sam _was_ going to kill his dad.  Their dad. 

And he knew that Dean would never forgive him, if that happened.  And Dean would blame himself, too.  It would be the end of him, probably.  The end of both of them, because where would Sam be, without Dean? 

So Sam was good (for the most part).  Did what he was told.  Followed Dean’s orders (which were their dad’s orders, he recognized, translated through Dean).  For the most part.   And he took Dean’s punishment for those other times.  When he was careless.  Or genuinely forgot.  Or just plain couldn’t be bothered, that day.  Chose punishment over effort.

Dean always seemed to know what the reason was.  And he wasn’t so easy on Sam either (their dad’s orders, again).   If he thought Sam was genuinely trying (everyone could slip up, sometimes), Sam would get away with a reprimand, and be ordered to repeat the task over again (usually several times), or complete some other (equally boring and aggravating) task to Dean’s perfectionist standards.

Forgetting was more serious.  There was usually the reprimand _and_ completing the task (over and over again) _and_ standing in the corner, until Dean let him out.

Being annoying or mouthing off (either or both) would usually get him a swat on the butt, sometimes a casual one, and sometimes a full fledged spanking, over Dean’s knee.   Sam had fun, sometimes, with that.  He kind of liked it when Dean spanked him, not least because of the effect it could have on his brother.  He liked seeing Dean get bothered and embarrassed, his cheeks flushed.  Sammy would amplify the effect of the spanking, wriggling and shrieking under Dean’s hand, just to see that.

But attitude, that was serious.  The big one.  When Dean punished him for attitude, Sam always ended up crying.  And Dean wasn’t bothered or embarrassed by that.  He was too busy being pissed off.

If Sam was sloppy with something because it wasn’t high on his priority list (or he was late to practice, or whatever), boy did he pay for it.

Dean would make him stand there and explain exactly _what_ he’d done wrong and _why_ it was wrong (because he’d let Dean and their dad down, of course).  He’d make him explain until Sam was close to tears and felt about a foot tall.  And then he’d have Sam bend over the table or one of the beds, and bare his ass.  And then he’d whip Sam with his belt, not brutally like their dad, but still pretty hard and painful (Dean had learned from an expert).  He’d keep it up until Sam was crying and saying he was sorry (and at that point, Sam _was_ sorry _,_ he was really, really sorry).  And then he’d make Sam stand in the corner for what felt like forever (but was usually about half an hour).  And then have Sam do the task (or exercise, or whatever it was) all over again from scratch.   Perfectly.

Sam hated those punishments.  But he put up with them.   Put up with them without complaining (too much) because he knew Dean hated them too.  And he felt bad for Dean as well, for having to do that to him.  Both of them at the mercy of their dad’s unrelenting expectations.

And he also put up with them because of afterwards.  Because of how Dean would take care of him, afterwards.

Eleven year old Sammy, standing in front of the dartboard fastened to their motel room wall, tears in his eyes.

A knife in his hand.  His butt smarting.  More than smarting.  On fire.

“Again.”  Dean’s voice.

“Dean, c’mon.  I can’t do this anymore.”

“You c’n do it, or stand in the corner again, Sammy.  An hour this time.  What’s it goin to be?”

“Dean I _can’t._   I’m too upset to throw straight.”

“And I guess the time you’re throwin for your _life,_ _that_ won’t be upsettin for you?”

“C’mon Dean, when would _that_ ever happen?”

“You never know Sammy, which is why we _practice,_ get it?  Or…I guess you don’t get it, do you?  Or you wouldn’t’ve screwed off today.  Keep me waitin outside the school for you like a chump, worryin.”

“I already said I was sorry.”

“Yes you did, n’ I believe you.  A sore butt c’n do that.  But you still have to do this.  I want three bullseye in a row.  So get to it.”

Sammy wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  Then straightening, assuming the throwing stance.  Letting the knife fly.  Just off the mark.  Walking up to the dartboard (carefully, his butt smarting) and yanking out the knife.  Walking back.  Assuming the stance.  Throwing again.   And again.  And again.  And again, his body falling into a rhythm, his mind shutting down.  Emptying.  Just the knife, the board and his hand, throwing.

And finally, calm.  A still space surrounding him, all else gone but the knife, his hand, the bullseye.  Again.  Again.  And again.

Sammy standing, watching the knife quivering in the centre of the board.  Seeing Dean walk up, pull it out.   Turn, facing Sammy, holding the knife in his hand.  “That was three.  Good work SammySam.” 

Sammy didn’t respond immediately.  He heard Dean’s words coming at him from far off, muted.  Then, returning to himself, back in their room, present.  His butt hurting. 

He stared at his brother, feeling tears rising suddenly, himself shaking, his body sore, worn and tired.

Dean gazing at him.  Then spreading his arms.  “C’mere.”

Sammy walking up to him, into Dean’s arms closing around him, putting his own arms around Dean’s waist, his face into Dean’s chest.  Holding on tight to his brother, the tears coming.  “That was hard Dean.”  Tears leaking onto Dean’s chest.

“I know,” Dean murmuring to him.  “But you did good Sammy, you did real good.  That was great throwin.  I’m proud of you.”

Sammy sniffling.  “You hit me real hard.”

Dean was rocking him.  “I know.”

“My butt hurts,” Sammy sniffled into his chest.  “I’m real sore now.  Dean.”  Starting to work it.

“I know,” Dean’s voice was dry.  “Trust me.”  Rocking him.  “Here you wanna come lie down on the bed?”

“Okay.”

Keeping his arms around Sammy, Dean walked them both over to the bed.  Climbed up on it, bringing Sammy with him.  Sat back against the headboard.  Sammy lay down next to him, curling up on his side.  He lay his head on Dean’s thigh.  Dean put an arm around his shoulders, stroking him.

Sammy’s eyes were closed.  “Rub my neck,” he said.

Dean snorted.  “What happened to `please’?”  But his hand moved to Sammy’s neck, digging into the muscles there. 

“Please,” Sammy whispered.  He felt Dean’s strong fingers on the back of his neck.  Strong, intelligent fingers, well trained, controlled.  Not a child’s hand anymore, no softness there, a wider span of fingers.  A young man’s hand.  Dean was getting bigger. 

Sammy felt himself start to drift, smoothed down by that calm, sure touch.  He was here with Dean, and his brother wasn’t mad at him anymore.  The punishment was over.  And Dean was proud of him.  He’d said so.  Things were okay again.

Dean always took care of him like that, afterwards.  Hugged Sam, allowed him to crawl into his lap.  Stroked him, murmured to him.  Praised him.  Their dad never did that.  But Dean did. 

And Sam would have done anything for him.  Put up with the harshest punishment (although Dean’s worst was still miles better than their dad’s).  Taken anything from Dean, even if he hated it.  And he’d try extra hard to be good, after.  To be excellent.  To achieve that perfect throw.  To please Dean.

Because of those quiet times with Dean, afterwards.

And now…Dean was doing homework with him.

That meant more to Sam than he could say.  To anyone.  Because nobody but Dean could have understood how he felt, and he couldn’t say how he felt to Dean either (not right now).

Watching his brother (who’d _kissed_ him), sitting across from him at the table.  Studying with Sam, listening to Sam, following his lead.  His movie star handsome big brother, who got stared at everywhere he went, girls (and grown ups too) following him hungrily with their eyes.  His lethal, take-no-shit brother, tough as nails, scared of nothing and nobody (not even their dad, although Dean still pretended).  The young, tough hunter-warrior, sitting across the table from him.

Doing homework with him.  Concentrating on it, even though he hated it, didn’t see the point of school at all.  Because he’d promised Sam.

And doing well, really fast, suddenly an A student, for the first time in his life.

And Sam started to see it, how Dean could be, if you took him outside the world they shared with their dad, their subterranean world of demons and ghosts and malignant monsters of every description.   A larger world, inhabited by people who lived for more than revenge, for more than the adrenaline joy of the hunt.

The daylight world.  And he saw how Dean could be part of that world.  It wouldn’t be so difficult for him to join it.  He’d do well there.  He could move on from their hopeless dad, let him hunt for his death on his own time.  Escape this shadow life.  And Sam could go with him.

Sam could help him. 

Sam would watch Dean, his head bent over his books, frowning.  He would gaze at his brother’s bright hair, glowing in their room’s harsh overhead light, and feel a great warmth radiating within him, as if there was a furnace inside him, lit by the sight of Dean.  He would watch Dean secretly, not wanting his brother (who, although he denied it, _was_ in fact shy and self conscious about his appearance and its effect on people), to see.  To see how Sam’s expression would break open, helplessly, looking at him _(Dean)_.  And then that other expression Sam would feel on his face, in his eyes, at the sight of Dean before him.  That giddy comprehension of ownership.

_(Mine)_

Dean had kissed him.

And Sam would do anything, anything for him.  Anything in his power, to give Dean his chance at a real life.  He’d help him bear up under the harsh expectations of their dad _(but not for much longer, only two more years until Dean’s eighteen and then we can leave)._  And he’d help him cross the bridge to the daylight world, when that time came, leaving their dad behind.  Would prepare Dean for it, that necessary loss of their dad.

Sam would do this for him.  He’d live up to that look he’d seen in Dean’s eyes, that everything look.  He’d be Dean’s everything.  He’d take that on.

He wanted, wanted, wanted Dean to kiss him again. 

Sam found he was putting himself in Dean’s way.  Standing close to him, bumping into him.  Leaning his head near to Dean’s.  Pressing up against him when they were sparring, his body hungry for the feel of Dean. 

And he’d bother Dean, deliberately.  Tease him.  Be an annoying brat (and he knew how to do it, he knew all of Dean’s buttons, years of observation and practice).  He’d rile Dean up to the point a spanking was called for (which could take some doing, Dean was pretty reluctant to give those out now, now that Sammy was twelve).  Enjoy the storm (sort of) when it broke, Dean whacking him sharply across the butt with his new, large hands.

 And at night, when he put himself in Dean’s bed.  The familiar warm snuggle of Dean, except now Sam felt a prickle all along his skin, wherever his body touched Dean’s, like every fine hair was standing on end. 

Sam, lying in his own bed. 

Staring across at his lump of a brother, who’d just settled himself down.  Their dad, out somewhere for the night, not saying where (probably a girlfriend…their dad took them on more frequently, now that Dean was older…he must have felt it was okay to leave his sons alone for the purposes of personal entertainment now, as well as work).

Hopping out of his bed and over to Dean’s, crawling in.  Dean grumbling.  “Did I say you could?”

Sam smiling.  “Nope.”  Pulling Dean’s covers around to suit himself, tucking his feet in.  Settling onto Dean’s pillow, his eyes on the back of Dean’s head.  He put his nose against Dean’s neck, deliberately.

“God Sammy, why is your nose always like ice?”  Dean grumbling.

“Dunno,” Sam said cheerfully (he was aware his nose was cold, this wasn’t the first time Dean had complained about it).  He put an arm around his brother’s waist. 

He felt Dean tense (this was a new thing, and kind of exciting).  “Don’t wriggle.”  Dean grumbling. 

“I’m not.”  Sam tucked his knees behind Dean’s.

“Yes you are –stop bein a _pain,_ Sammy!”

“Don’t say that –hurt’s my feelins.”  Sam was grinning.

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, right.”  But he sounded less grouchy.  Sam felt him relaxing.  About to get sleepy.  He tightened his arm around Dean’s waist.  Pressed his chest against Dean’s back and sighed. 

Felt Dean tense again.  Then his breath was speeding up, the rise and fall of his ribs, against Sam.  Sam felt his own breath coming fast and shallow in his chest.  There was a tendril of warmth unfurling low in his belly, a rush of heat to his groin.  He shifted his lower body away from Dean –didn’t want his brother to notice he was hard. 

“Sammy –stop movin around.”  Dean sounded like he was having trouble speaking. 

“Sorry,” Sam breathed.  His face was against the back of Dean’s neck.  The skin of his cheek was tingling, where it touched Dean.  He wanted Dean to turn around.  To kiss him, again.

“Sammy I think you should go back to your own bed,” Dean said.  “You’re too big to be here.  Takin up too much room now.  You’re botherin me.”

Sam didn’t like that.  “It’s a double bed Dean, all you have to do is _move over_ ,” he said, snappishly.  Shoved at his back, to make a point.  Had he actually been waiting for Dean to kiss him, like a girl?  Gross.  Dean would _never_ know.

Dean grumbled under his breath, but moved himself over.  Then put both arms around his pillow and hugged it, dragging it out from under Sam’s head.  “ -Hey!”

“Too bad,” Dean said.  “You want a pillow, you’ve got one – over there.”  He gestured vaguely towards Sam’s bed.  Then settled down again, his back to Sam.

Sam scowled at him.  Turned his back on Dean as well.  But then he leaned against the warm wall of his brother, feeling the hard bone of his spine.  Placed his butt against the flat surface of Dean’s lower back.  Felt Dean tense again.  His brother’s breath, speeding up.

Sam relaxed against Dean, smiling.  He eventually slept.

So things were going okay, actually.  Sam was feeling happier than he had in…years, maybe.  Ever. 

Hopeful, that was the word.

Because it was only a matter of time before Dean kissed him again. 

He hadn’t said anything.  Didn’t act different.  But Sam could tell.  Something was different.  Dean felt differently about him, and eventually he’d show it.  All Sam had to do was wait.  And keep himself close.

And once Dean did…they’d have a chance, maybe, at a good life.  The dark spell of their dad would be broken.

But it didn’t work out that way.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam should have seen that whipping coming.  It was his fault really, for not thinking ahead.   Had he really thought Dean would put up with attitude like that?

But he hadn’t been thinking.

He’d been too mad.

In a cold rage, building all day.  By the time Dean had picked him up from school and they had returned to their (hideous shabby claustrophobic dad hangover smelling) motel room Sam was feeling dangerously out of control.

Ready to slash burn and destroy everything in sight.  Including himself (himself most especially).

And _so_ ready to take Dean with him.  To make him pay _big._

For Sam, that he’d made Sam feel like this.

For the way he’d acted, the night before.

Dean had finally kissed him again.  But Sam had been crying, when Dean kissed him.

Crying because Dean was a goddamn stupid _asshole_ , too stupid and blind to see his own _life,_ that bright, wide life in front of him, just there for him if he would just _take it._  

He could open the cage.  For him and Sam both.

But no.  The minute their dad was in the room, Dean’s eyes were on _him,_ trained on their dad like a good little soldier _(yes dad yes sir),_ fussing over him, hanging on their dad’s words like he had the fucking inside track on everything.  Watching their dad pour glass after glass of whiskey down his gullet (and saying nothing).  Dean taking care of their dad like being the nurse of an alcoholic was his goddamn mission in life.

And Sam thrown back to the supporting role of awkward baby brother, a burden on their dad and Dean’s worrisome responsibility.  Not even in the picture, otherwise.

Sam was so _sick_ of it.  And so sad.  The situation made him so sad.  Their lives were sad.  And Dean didn’t _see_ it.  Or worse, he saw it and…he chose it.  Made that choice for him and Sam both.

And so he’d climbed into Dean’s bed, crying.  Not caring that their dad was in the same room.  Let him wake up and find them disobeying his direct order to sleep apart (not that he _would_ wake up, that passed out drunk).  Let him kill them for it.  What did it matter?  This wasn’t living, anyway.

And Sam had cried those words out finally.  Cried them out against Dean’s chest, his words of frustration and grief.  And Dean had… _heard_ him.  Dean had started crying too, his big brother.  And then Dean had…apologized.

Hearing that choked apology, through tears _(his brother, crying, he’d made Dean cry)_ , Sam felt as if a light had broken open inside of him, suddenly, a cold, healing light like medicine.  Bleeding out from Sam's hard dark shell of despair.

Forgive.

He could forgive Dean. 

Forgive him anything, forgive him all of it, because of that sound, that sound of Dean’s rough low voice, crying.  Sam was crying too, still sad sad sad.  But he would give Dean the words his brother needed, spoken through his own tears.  To make him feel better.

And he had made Dean feel better.  Dean had calmed down, started laughing about something. 

And then Dean had kissed him.

Sam felt his brother’s lips in his hair.  He stopped breathing, his body frozen under that kiss that he’d been waiting for.

Frozen.  But with a volcano erupting inside him.

And then he’d kissed Dean back _(kissed him)._ He’d kissed Dean back, on his brother’s throat, Dean’s warm skin, the pulse, pounding.

And Dean had kissed him again, kissed him on the face and Sam was lost, lost under the touch of his brother’s mouth, his hands on Dean’s back, against his skin, his mouth opening, whispering Dean’s name, and kissing, kissing his throat, kissing Dean finally _(his)._ And Dean pressing his hard body against him, the hard bulge, Sam gasping.

And then suddenly Dean shaking him.  Snapping at him, hard, ugly words.  Throwing him to the floor, Sam bruising his hip, painfully.

And Dean, crouching over him, trying to speak to Sam like what he’d just done to him could be fixed with _conversation._

And Sam, curled up on the floor, pleading with Dean, negotiating, beyond humiliation.  And finally, Dean’s terrible words, Sam hearing them, a wound tearing open inside of him.   Hearing the terrible finality in Dean’s voice.

Dean, removing himself.  From Sam, from Sam’s touch, his body.  Taking himself away.  He was sorry about it, sure.  But he was taking himself away, still.

To leave Sam with nothing, nothing but this dark room, their drunken, passed out dad, and years of this nothing life ahead of him, stretching before him, endless.

Sam, finally climbing back into his own bed.  Pulling the covers over his head to block out the sight and sound of Dean and Dean’s pathetic, apologetic voice. 

Lying there in the dark, the cold rage building.

Their dad started dreaming, sometime in the middle of the night.

Sam in a restless sleep, now with his own dreams disturbed by low ragged moans.

And then a shout.   Sam sat up, his heart in his throat.  Then a coughing groan, from the other side of the room. 

Sam rolled his eyes and flopped back down on the bed.  Great.  Now they got to listen to the chorus of dad for the rest of the night. 

Their dad started to mumble, English words mixed with Latin.  Another coughing groan.  Then just plain coughing, their dad’s breath choking and uneven. 

Sam lay in bed, listening to this, his hands balled into fists.  Maybe they’d get lucky tonight and their dad would plain just choke. 

Dean got up.  He went over to their dad, bent over him on the couch.  Shook their dad’s shoulder.   “Dad, dad, get up.”  Shaking him.  “C’mon dad, sit up.”

Their dad groaning, coughing.  Dean shaking him.  Finally their dad responding.  “Wha-  Dean?”

“You were dreamin dad.  C’n you sit up now?  C’mon, sit up for a moment.”  Dean urged their dad into a sitting position.

Sam watching this from his bed, their dad’s slumped form, Dean’s head bent towards him, his arm around their dad’s back.  “You were coughing pretty bad, dad.  I thought you were gonna choke."

“M’okay Dean.”  Their dad’s slurred voice.  “Just dreamin.  Bad dream that’s all.”

“I know.”  Dean sitting down silently beside their dad, on the couch.  The two of them, silhouettes in the dark room.  Sam watching.

Their dad.  “C’n you get me a glass of water Dean?  Throat’s dry.”

“Sure.”  The tap running.  Dean bringing a glass of water over to their dad, sitting down beside him again.  The sound of their dad swallowing.   “Thanks son.”

“Dad why don’t you get up and we c’n pull out the bed.” Dean’s voice.

“Nah don’t bother.  M’okay.”  Their dad lying down again.  Dean covering him with his jacket, putting the empty glass on the table.  “Dean.”  Their dad’s voice.  Dean pausing, standing over him.

“Yeah dad?”

“Wake me up again okay?  If I start to dream like that again.”

Dean hesitated.   “It’s hard to wake you up sometimes, dad.  N’ you strike out sometimes.  Hit at me.”

Their dad sighed.  “I’m sorry son.  Don’t mean to.”

“I know.”  Dean was quiet.  Then asked.  “Dad…what were you dreamin about?”

Their dad was silent.  Then his voice, hollow.  A dark, dead voice.  “Mary.”

Sam felt tears rising, hearing this.  He stared fiercely out in front of him, into the dark room.  He was not going to cry.  Tears were not going to fall, over this, this stale grief.

“I’m sorry dad.”  Dean’s quiet voice.

“Yeah.”  Their dad lying on the couch.  Dean went back to his bed.  Sam closed his eyes again.

But Dean was up twice more that night, their dad groaning, retching, mumbling.  The Latin.  Dean’s low voice, their dad’s rough voice answering.  Sam had buried his head under his pillow. 

Finally, morning, dim daylight seeping through the windows.

Sam lying on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling.  Their dad’s rumbling snores. 

Dean hauling himself up, dragging listlessly into the bathroom, the door closing, shower running.  Sam closed his eyes. 

“Sammy.”  Sam opened his eyes, looked up.  His brother was standing over his bed, dressed for school.  Sam gazed at him.

Dean looked terrible, his face gray, eyes hollow, dark circles under his eyes.  Sam stared at him silently.

“Time to get up now, Sammy.  We gotta get goin.”

Sam stared at him.  Then got up, without answering.  Went to the bathroom, showered, brushed his teeth.  Walked out of the bathroom, naked, a towel wrapped around his waist.  Glanced over at Dean.  His brother was sitting at the table, staring into a bowl of cereal.  Looked up briefly at Sam then looked away. 

Sam crouched over the duffel bag containing his clothes and pulled out underwear, jeans and a shirt.  Socks.  Dressed himself, his back to Dean.  Went over to the table.  His brother had poured him a bowl of cereal with milk.  Sam sat down, picked up his spoon, started to shovel the cereal into his mouth. 

“You’re welcome.”  Dean’s voice.

Sam glanced at him and kept eating.  He didn’t answer.

Dean was finished.  He sat looking at Sam over his empty bowl.  “So what, then?  Just gonna ignore me?”

Sam glared at him.  Looked away.  Kept eating.

“Sammy?”  Dean’s strained, tired voice.

“Just lemme alone Dean,” Sam said.  He kept his eyes turned away. 

Then said, viciously.  “…I c’n barely... _look_ at you.” 

Dean was silent.

Sam glanced up.  Dean was staring at him like he’d been slapped.  Then as Sam watched, Dean got roughly up from the table.  Took his dishes to the sink, throwing them down with a clatter.  Grabbed his jacket and knapsack and slammed out of the room. 

Sam stared at the closed motel room door.  There was a cold dry hurt in his stomach. 

Then he got up from the table too.  Took his bowl over to the sink, his movements deliberate.  Washed and dried both Dean’s dishes and his own, laying them neatly on the counter.  Glanced over.

His dad lay obliviously on the couch, sleeping finally, the ripe smell of whiskey hanging over him, practically visible, a cloud of alcohol stench.  Sam contemplated him for awhile.  Just him and dad, no big brother to run interference.

No.  Not in cold blood, after all.  They’d raised him to be a killer, not a murderer.

Sam shrugged on his jacket (ragged at the cuffs, a hand down from Dean, like all the rest of his clothes, Sam had never minded until just now).  Picked up his knapsack and let himself quietly out of their room.  The long walk towards his latest school on this cold spring day.  Dean had left him to walk alone.

In spite of himself, Sam looked for Dean all the way to school.  Maybe his brother was waiting for him up the road.  But he arrived as he’d started out, by himself.   Entered class late, his teacher scowling at him.

Sat through the rest of the morning silently, in an exhausted haze.

Dean didn’t show up at lunch either.

Sam was sitting morosely on the bleachers by the side of the track.

“Where’s your brother Sam?”  One of the girls in his class, Hester or Esther or something, giggling.  A gaggle of others, staring at him (Sam had noticed that the girls in his class would hang near him at lunch, waiting for Dean to show).  “I thought he came by all the time on lunch.”

Sam glanced at her, too dispirited to answer.

“Why does he _do_ that, anyway?”  Another girl giggling.

“Checking on his baby.”  The first girl.  Giggles.

Sam closed his eyes.  To his horror he felt himself close to tears.  He.  Was not.  Going to cry.

He opened his eyes, looked at the group of girls in front of him, staring at him like a row of crows on a fence.  “Fuck off,” he said briefly.  “Last time Dean was here he asked me how I could stand bein in the same room with ugly skanks like you.  It’s not easy, trust me.”  He closed his eyes again.  When he opened them, the girls were gone.

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon wondering whether Dean would show up after school to get him.  If he didn’t would Sam even go back to the motel?  He thought about returning to their small room (inhabited by their hungover dad) without Dean.  It seemed like too much, suddenly, for Sam to deal with.  Maybe he’d go down to the park by the river instead.  Sit on a bench, look at the water.  Maybe throw himself in.

But Dean was there, after school, waiting for Sam in his usual spot. 

Sam halted just outside the school doors, looking at his brother.  Dean stood silently, waiting for him, watching.  The kids streaming out of the school swerved around him, keeping their distance instinctively, like a flock of sheep avoiding a wolf.  Dean ignored them, his eyes on Sam.

Sam paused, tempted to turn his back on his brother and go back inside.   He was torn between anger and relief.  Then he walked up to Dean.  Walked past him.

Dean followed, fell into step beside him.  Sam kept walking, silently.

“Hey Sammy,”  Dean said.

Sam ignored him.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said again.  “Sammysam.  SamSam.”

Sam ignored him.

Dean sighed.  “You’re killin me here Sammy.  C’mon.”

“Where were you at lunch today?” Sam snapped.

Dean glanced at him then shrugged.  “I didn’t think you’d want me comin by today.  Seein you c’n barely… _look_ at me and all.”

It was Sam’s turn to shrug.  “Yeah, guess you have a point.”  He kept walking.

“Sammy….”  Dean’s strained voice.  “I’ve had a rotten day and I’m runnin on _no_ sleep.  Alright?  So stop bein such a bitch.  I can’t take that, right now.”

Sam snorted.  “You know what Dean?  You c’n take all that, and more.  That’s what you’re all about.”

Dean’s voice rose.  “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sam ignored him.

Dean seemed like he wanted to say something else, but decided not to.  He stalked along beside Sam, his hands in his pockets.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the motel.

Entered their room, then paused at the sight before them.

Their dad, packing a bag, his movements brisk and efficient.  He glanced briefly at Dean.  “Job,” he said.  “I’m goin to be gone for two weeks at least.  I don’t want to send you to Bobby’s if I c’n help it, you boys missin school again.  You’ll be okay on your own for two weeks Dean?”

“Sure dad.”  Dean nodding.

Their dad taking a wad of bills out of his wallet, handing them to Dean.  “Here.  This should do for food.  Be careful about spendin it.”

“Sure.  Thanks.”

Their dad looked at Sam.  “And I want you practicing with Sam every day.  No slacking because I’m not here.  He’s still not where you were at his age Dean, and I don’t want him thinking he c’n get away with bein soft.  Got it?”

Dean looked down.  “Yes dad.”

“I’ll be havin a look at him when I get back.  I expect progress.”

“Yes sir.”  Dean’s voice was flat.  Sam glared at their dad silently.

Their dad looked at Sam.  Pointed his finger at him.  “And you mind your brother.  Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Sam muttered.

His dad nodded like that settled things.  Picked up his bag.  “I’ll check in daily,” he said.  “I’ll call around dinner time.  Try not to call me if you don’t have to.  It might be hard for me to talk.  If there’s somethin that can’t wait, call Bobby.”  Looked at his sons.

“Yes sir,” they answered.

Their dad nodded.  He left.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.   Dean seemed like he wanted to say something, again.  But then Sam went over to the couch and flopped down.  He turned on the TV.

Dean’s voice.  “What’re you doin?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” Sammy replied.

“We’re practicin first,” said Dean.  “You heard dad.  You c’n watch TV after.”

“Nope,” Sam answered. 

“Whaddaya mean…nope?”

“I mean…no.”  Sam looked at Dean.  “I’m not practicin.”  Dean was staring back.  “I’m on holiday,” Sam elaborated.  He smiled.

Dean stared at him.  Then he stalked over to the couch, grabbed the remote out of Sam’s hand and turned the TV off.  Stood over Sam’s prone body.  “You are not,” he bit out.  “Get up Sammy.  We’re practicin _now._   With the knives.”

Sam shook his head.  He looked up at Dean, taking in his pissed off expression.  “Uh uh,” he said lightly.  “Not me.  You c’n practice by yourself.  Dad’s good little boy, doin what he’s told.”  Smiled at Dean again.

Dean stared at him for a moment longer.  Then he went over to the locked box where they stashed their weapons during the day.  Pulled out Sam’s hunting knife and his own.  Unsheathed them.  Hefted his knife in his hand.  Then flung Sam’s knife at his brother’s head.

Sam caught it, just barely.  He sat up.  “Dean!  What the fuck!”

Dean was coming at him.  “We’re practicin,” he said.  “Or you’re gettin cut.  Now what’s it goin to be?”  Lunged.

Sam blocked him instinctively.  And then they were into it, fighting hard, grappling.  Sam was panting, his lips turned back from his teeth in a snarl.  He was going after Dean for real, let his brother get stabbed in the gut he wanted to practice so bad.

Dean blocked him, blocked him again.  Sam feinted, lunged.  They rolled off the couch onto their feet, their bodies banging against the table, the TV.   Sam sprang back, his knife held in front of him, his eyes on Dean.  They circled each other silently.  Sam lunged.  Then Dean caught him, twisting his arm, Sam’s knife clattering out of his hand.  He was on the floor, Dean on top of him, holding him down.

Sam was writhing, snarling.  “Lemme up!”  Ignoring Dean’s knife at his throat.

Dean put his knife down.  But he didn’t let Sam up, pinning his wrists.  “No,” he said.  “Not until you apologize to me for bein a bitch.”

Sam was bucking under him, trying to free himself, Dean’s grip like iron.  “Forget it!” he hissed.

Dean looked at him, his face hard.  “Dad’s right,” he said eventually.  “You think you c’n get away with anythin.  Somethin doesn’t go your way you pitch a fit or freeze me out.  Prance around me ‘n’ dad like you’re better than us, lookin at us like we’re shit on your shoes.  Treatin me like I'm a fuckin tool…like it’s _my_ job to do anythin you want.”

Sam stared up at the hard green eyes.  Rage was boiling through him.  “Fuck you Dean,” he hissed.  “Now lemme up!”  Struggling.  He jabbed a knee painfully into Dean’s side.  Dean grunted, but didn’t release his grip, bearing down on Sam with his weight.  His eyes were blazing now, like green fire.  He put his face close to Sam’s.  “Apologize first,” he said tightly.  His fingers were painfully gripping Sam’s wrists.

“I’m not apologizin for nothin!”  Sam said.   “You _are_ a fuckin tool Dean, but not for me!  _Dad’s_ stupid tool is what _you_ are!  ‘N’ he fucks you every day and you’re too _stupid_ to see it!”

Dean’s eyes widened.  Sam saw his whole face twitch involuntarily, like Sam’s words had ripped off a layer of skin.  Then his grip tightened cruelly on Sam’s wrists.  Sam gasped with pain.

“You’re fuckin sayin sorry Sammy!”  Dean was shouting.  “Apologize!  Right now!”  He looked violent.

Sam was struggling to get up.  Dean didn’t move, his grip on Sam’s wrists unrelenting.   Finally Sam let himself go limp, softening his expression.  He saw Dean relax somewhat.  Sam smiled slightly at him.  Then he spat, full force, into Dean’s face.  Dean’s grip loosened in shock.  Sam scrambled to his feet.  “ _That’s_ my apology, dick!”  Made a lunge for the door.  He was so out of there.

Dean grabbed him.   Sam caught a glimpse of his face.  It was bone white, Dean’s eyes like green holes, terrifying.  Sam flailed against him, suddenly panicked.  “Lemme go!  Fuck you!”  He kicked back at Dean, catching him in the knee.

“That’s it.”  A painful sound in Dean’s voice.  Sam had never heard him sound like that before.  “You’re gettin it.”  He whirled Sam around, bringing Sam’s arm up hard behind his back.  Walked him over to the table and slammed him face down onto it, his other hand pinning the back of Sam’s neck.  Sam was struggling wildly, kicking out behind him, his arm wrenching painfully in Dean’s grip.  He was shrieking. 

“No!  You’re not doin this Dean!  I’m not holdin still for this!”

“Yes you are Sammy!”  Dean was leaning over him, pressing Sam into the table, its edge digging painfully into his stomach.

“I’m not!  I’m never takin your punishment again!”  Sam was kicking, snarling.  “You whip me you’re goin to have to tie me down!”  Dean would never do that, Sam knew.  “Now _lemme up!_   You fuck!”

“No.”  Dean’s voice was ice cold.  He spoke close to Sam’s ear, pressing him down.  “And you _are_ takin it, Sammy.  Or I’m callin dad.  Gonna tell him I can’t handle you anymore.  Then _he’s_ goin to whip you.  And _he’ll_ tie you down, to do it.”

Sam stilled.  “You bring dad back from a hunt for this he’ll whip you too,” he said.

“Yes he will.”  Dean’s cold voice.  The hard hands, holding him.  “And you’re goin to be watchin, while he does it.  He’ll make sure of that.  And he’ll give it bad.  He promised that too.  And you’ll be watchin.  You lookin forward to that, Sammy?”

Sam was crying.  He felt the strength leaving his body.  “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”  Dean’s voice like ice.

Sam was bent over the table, crying.  Dean waited another moment.  Then he released Sam’s arm, took his hand off Sam’s neck.  Stepped back.  Sam stayed where he was.  He heard Dean undoing his belt.  “Drop ‘em.”

“Dean, no,” Sam whispered.  Tears were running from his eyes.  “C’mon.”

“Drop ‘em Sammy.”  Dean’s voice was expressionless. 

Sam was crying.  Then his hands went to the waist of his pants, fumbling.  He undid his pants, slid them down his waist. 

“Shorts too,” Dean said matter-of-factly.  Sam yanked his underwear down.   He felt the cold air on his bare butt.  Turned his face into the table, crying.

Heard Dean backing up, positioning himself.  Then the swish of his belt.  A burning crack on his ass.  Sam gasped. 

Another swish and a burning crack.  Sam gasped again.  Then another.  Sam was cringing.  Dean was hitting him hard, harder than he ever had.

A burning crack, across his ass.  Sammy gasped.  “Dean, please-“

“Shuddup.”  Another crack.

Sam was writhing.  “Dean please, c’mon-“

Another crack.  Harder.  “I told you to _shuddup,_ Sammy!”

Sam was crying.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “Please.”

Another crack.  And then another.  And then another.  Sam was sobbing now.  “Dean, please!”

Another crack.  Sam cried out.  He was writhing against the table.  Started to straighten up, instinctively seeking to escape.

“Stay where you are!”  Dean’s voice like a lash.  Then the crack of his belt again, whipping across Sam’s butt, even harder than before.

Sam was writhing, clutching at the table.  “Dean!”

“Got somethin to say to me now, Sammy?”  Another whipping lash.

Sam was sobbing.

“Well?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam sobbed.

“Say again?”

“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry.” 

Another lash.

_“Dean!”_

“Sorry for _what?”_

“I’m sorry for bein a bitch.”

“… _And?”_

“And…and I’m sorry for…spittin on you.”

“Yeah.”  There was an ugly note in Dean’s voice.  “You’re goin to be plenty sorry, for that.”  The belt cracked across Sam’s ass again.

“Dean!”  Sam shrieked.  “I said I was sorry!”

“Yeah you did,” Dean answered.  “But I didn’t say I forgive you.”  Another crack.

Sam was sobbing.  “Please Dean, stop.”

“Why should I?”  Another crack.

Sam was writhing.  Dean was hitting him harder than he ever had in his life.  He sounded like a stranger.  Sam's mind was blanking out with pain and fear.

“Dean _please!_   I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!  Okay?  What else do you want me to _say_ _to you_ Dean?  _Please!”_

Another crack.  Sam cried out. 

“What I want you to _ask me_ is more like it,” Dean’s cold voice.  “Figure it out, or I keep goin. _”_

Sobs were hitching in Sam’s chest.  He didn’t know what to say.

Dean lashed him again.  Sam cried out.  His body was starting to shut down, a red haze rising.

Ask him. 

Dean wanted Sam to ask him something.

“Forgive me,” Sam whispered. 

“For _what?”_   Dean’s voice, stone cold.

“Spittin on you,” Sam said brokenly.  “I shouldn’t have done that.  Forgive me Dean, please.”

Dean was silent.  Sam waited painfully, his body cringing against another blow.  Then Dean’s voice.  “Get up.  Get into the corner.”

Sam was sobbing again, this time with relief.  He bent to pull up his pants, puddled around his ankles.

“No.”  Dean’s voice.  “Leave ‘em where they are.”

Sam stepped out of his pants.  He stumbled over to the corner, naked from the waist down.  Wiped his arm across his streaming face.  “Head against the wall.”  Dean’s voice.

Sam leaned his forehead against the room’s cheap wooden panelling.  He was crying helplessly with pain and humiliation.  He wiped his face again.

“Hands behind your back.”  Dean’s voice.  “And keep ‘em there.  You’re staying there until I say you c’n move Sammy, and I mean it.  Leave without my say and this whippin starts over from the beginnin.  Got it?”

“Yeah,” Sam said miserably.

He heard Dean behind him, doing up his belt.  Then the sound of his brother settling down on the couch.  The TV, blaring.

Sam leaned his head against the wall, crying silently.

This was so unfair. 

He was too old for this. 

Dean, behind him on the couch, watching TV, ignoring him.

And this was Sam’s life, this despairing life. 

And Dean didn’t care, clearly.

Sam wanted to die.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam’s tears had dried up.

He stood silently, his forehead resting against the wall, his hands clasped stiffly in the small of his back.  His neck was sore and every muscle in his body was aching and strained.  He’d gotten cold, standing so still, half naked.   His butt had been stinging but was now throbbing with pain, the raw skin, welted.

“Sammy.”  Dean’s voice, behind him.  Sam didn’t move.

“Sammy.”  Dean’s voice.  “You c’n turn around, now.”

Sam turned around.  Dean was standing in front of him, Sam’s underwear and pants held out in one hand.  “Here.”

Sam took his clothes from his brother.  He put them on carefully, his movements stiff and slow.  Dean stood in front of him.  “Want some dinner?”

Sam looked at him.  Dean stood there, his hands at his sides.  He made no move to touch Sam at all.

Sam looked down.  “Sure.”

Dean turned away, towards the fridge.  “You c’n lie on the couch,” he said, over his shoulder.

Sam walked awkwardly over to the couch.  Every movement sent a radiating, humiliating pain through his butt.  His clothes scraped painfully against the welts.  He lay down on his side on the couch.  Dean had turned the TV off.  Sam stared at the blank screen, silently.

Dean turned back from the fridge.  “There’s nothin here,” he said.  “I’ll have to go out.  You want anythin in particular?”

Sam looked at him.  “No,” he said.

Dean met his eyes briefly, then looked away.  He picked up his jacket.  “I won’t be long,” he said.  Looked at Sam again.  “You stay here.”

“Stay here,” Sam repeated, slowly.   His lips felt stiff, like the rest of him.  “Where would I go?”

Dean was standing over him.  He was looking at Sam carefully, Sam noticed.  “I dunno,” he said.  “I got the feelin you might have plans to go somewhere, earlier.”

Sam smiled at him, bitterly.  “I c’n barely move, Dean, thanks to you.  I’m not goin anywhere, tonight.”

Dean didn’t respond.  His mouth was tightly shut, lips sealed in a pale line.  Then he nodded, briefly.  Turned to leave.

“ -But those plans are comin,” Sam said. 

Dean turned back.  Looked at him.

“I _will_ be leaving,” Sam said. “Just as soon as I can.”

Dean stalked over to the couch, stood over Sam as he lay there.  His eyes were blazing.  “You’re not goin anywhere,” he said.

Sam smiled again.  “I will be so gone,” he said softly.   “Just you wait.”

Dean hunkered down beside him.  He put his face close.  “Listen to me Sammy,” he said.  “That’s not happenin.  I’m not gonna let you.  So don’t even think about it.”

“How’re you gonna to stop me?” Sam asked him.  “You can’t watch me every minute.”

Dean was very close to him now.  He spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on Sam’s face.  “You try goin _anywhere_ I will hunt you down, Sammy, you hear me?  You’re not gonna get far.”

Sam was shaking, suddenly.  “And so what?” he hissed.  “What’re you goin to do then?  Beat me?”

Dean’s eyes were hard.  “If I have to,” he said.

Sam shook his head.  “I’m not takin another beatin,” he said.  “It happens again that’s the _last_ time you see me alive.  One way or the other.”

Dean was staring at him.  “What’re you sayin?” he asked, starkly.

“I’m sayin I’m not goin on like this,” Sam replied.  “I’m not gonna keep on livin this way.  I’m _leavin_   Dean, just as soon as I can.  One way or the other.”

Dean looked furious.  He had wrapped a hand around Sam’s upper arm.  “You’re _not_ _leavin,_ Sammy!” he said harshly.  “Get that through your head.  I’m not _lettin you."_

Sam looked at him.  All the coldness had left Dean’s expression.  His eyes were fixed on Sam, angry and worried.

“How’re you gonna stop me?” Sam whispered.

Dean’s eyes were raw.  Sam could see his chest heaving.  He felt his own breath speeding up.

“…You gonna stop me, Dean?” he whispered again. 

Dean’s expression was breaking open.  His lips were trembling, Sam saw.   Sam held himself still, watching.

Then Dean was leaning towards him.  He put his arms around Sam’s body, pulling him forward.  His cheek was against Sam’s, the light stubble, scraping.   “Sammy,” Dean said, into Sam’s ear.  He was speaking with difficulty.  “Please don’t do this.”

Sam was still.  Then he rubbed his cheek against Dean’s.   He felt Dean shudder.  “Don’t be this way Sammy,” Dean whispered to him, painfully.  "Please."

Sam felt his brother’s warm rough cheek.  Dean’s lips were brushing Sam’s ear, his arms around Sam, holding him carefully.

The volcano, inside of Sam, again.

Sam turned his face into Dean’s throat, his lips on Dean’s skin.   He opened his mouth against Dean’s throat, his tongue tasting him, the salty skin.

Dean was shaking.  He’d gone down on his knees, beside the couch, leaning forward into Sam.  Sam wrapped his own arms around him.   He was kissing Dean’s throat again, hungrily, luxuriously.  He nuzzled into Dean’s throat, kissed his jaw.

Dean’s teeth were clenched.  His eyes were tightly closed.  “Sammy,” he whispered again.  “Don’t.”

“I gotta,” Sam breathed.  He was kissing Dean’s jaw, his chin, his throat, again _(Dean)_.  He’d pressed as much of himself against Dean as possible.  “It’s the only thing that makes things better.  _Dean, please,”_ he whispered.  He was kissing Dean again.

Dean had pushed his face hard against Sam’s cheek.  Sam could feel the brush of his brother’s eyelashes on his skin.  Dean’s breath was shuddering into his ear.   Then suddenly Dean’s hands were circling Sam’s head.  He put his thumbs under Sam’s jaw, tilting his face up.   He found Sam’s mouth.  Dean kissed him on the mouth.

Dean’s mouth was open against Sam’s, kissing him, feeding on him.  Sam felt Dean pushing against him, pushing Sam’s head back with the pressure of his mouth, his tongue on Sam’s lips, inside his mouth.  Dean’s breath, shuddering.  Sam was clutching at him, nuzzling into him, his own mouth opening under Dean’s, receiving him.  He was tasting Dean’s mouth, licking his brother’s mouth.  He heard himself making soft gasping sounds, helplessly.

Dean got himself up off the floor.  He lay down on the couch beside Sam, fitting his body against Sam’s.  He pressed the hard bulge of his cock against Sam, into Sam’s groin, against Sam’s own cock.  His hands were on both sides of Sam’s face, thumbs digging into Sam’s jaw to hold him in place.  He was kissing Sam repeatedly, on his mouth, his cheeks, on the side of his throat, on the sensitive skin under Sam’s ear.  Sam had his arms around Dean’s back.  He was reaching up with his mouth, reaching up towards Dean, his mouth open, seeking his brother’s mouth, sucking against Dean’s lips, biting them.  He opened his legs, clasping them around Dean’s body, his brother’s lean hard body pressing down against him, against Sam’s own sore body, now blazing like fire.  Sam was moaning.

Dean was kissing him, shuddering, his ribs heaving.  Then he sat up suddenly.  Stared down at Sam with wide, furious eyes.  “Sammy,” he spat.  “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?  You’re actin like a fuckin slut.  _What are you doin to me?”_

Sam stared up at him, gasping.  He felt his eyes filling with tears.  Dean was staring at him like he hated him.

“I dunno,” he whispered.  “Does it matter?  Come back.  Dean.”  He raised his arms.

Dean was clasped in his arms, on top of him again, pressing Sam down.  Kissing Sam, again.  “Sammy,” he whispered, agonized.  Kissing him.  Then said, “This shouldn’t be happenin.  You’re just a kid.  You’re only twelve.”  His face had twisted, saying this.  But then his lips were on Sam's throat.

Sam felt a sharp pain entering him.  At Dean, calling him a kid.  Like Dean had a right to say that.  Like Sam had ever been one.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” Sam whispered back.  He turned his head, kissed Dean’s mouth, through tears.   His brother’s lips, opening under his.  “I’m no kid,” Sam whispered to him fiercely.  “You didn’t raise me that way.”

Dean was crying.  Sam felt his tears against his face.  “Don’t say that Sammy,” he replied, choked.  “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Sam said relentlessly.  He was angry, suddenly, very angry at Dean.  He felt his body flush with hot rage.  “Tellin me I’m _only twelve_.  _Twelve_ is just a number, Dean.”  Then he moved his lips to Dean’s cheek, kissed him softly.  Whispered, “You didn’t raise me to be twelve.” 

Dean had bowed his head, like the strength had left him.  He was crying.  Sam felt his tears.  He rubbed his cheek against Dean’s tears.  Found Dean’s mouth, again.

Sam was kissing Dean again, couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop, Dean’s lips against his, Dean, Dean, Dean was kissing him back, his mouth opening to Sam, his lips softening under Sam’s mouth.

“You raised me to be yours,” Sam said.

Dean had his face against Sam’s throat.   He was crying.

“I’m your kid,” Sam said.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He sounded broken.

Sam was stroking him, hands running up and down Dean’s back.  “All yours,” he whispered.

“No,” Dean said.  He was holding Sam hard, his face against Sam’s hair.  “You can’t mean it.  You gotta take that _back,_ Sammy!”

“I can’t,” Sam said.  “Not even if I wanted to.  It’s too late, Dean.  It’s what you’ve got.”

Dean was crying.  Sam was holding him, kissing him, pressing kisses on Dean’s face, his lips.  He felt Dean’s body lying against him, his big brother.  It would be alright.  Dean would take care of him.

But then Dean said, “But Sammy…what if I don’t want this.”

Sammy went cold.  “What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

“I’m just a…kid too, Sammy,” Dean’s low voice, agonized.  “I haven’t even kissed a girl yet.  I haven’t had… _anything,_ outside of you ‘n’ dad.  You’re not the only one.”

“So?” Sammy said.  He felt panic breaking out inside him.  Tried not to show it, put his face against Dean’s neck.

“So maybe _I’m_ not ready, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.  “Not ready for this.”

Sam’s lips were trembling.  After a moment, he asked.  “So when will you be ready?”   He made an effort to speak calmly.  After all, he could be understanding.  He could wait.  For a bit.

Dean’s voice rose.  “I don’t _know,_ Sammy, what kind of question is that?  Maybe never.”  There were tears in Dean’s voice.

Sam felt despair hitting him again, a black wall.  Dean was going to let him down.  Again.  He pushed at Dean’s shoulders, suddenly dying to get away.  “Then lemme up,” he said, choked.  He heard the rage building in his voice, like a lash.   His goddamn _(pathetic, blind)_ brother.  Dean didn’t respond.

Sam pushed at him again.  “Dean. _Lemme up!”_

But Dean didn’t move.  And when he answered, his voice sounded different.  “No.”

Sam was pushing at him.  He shouted, suddenly, “ _Lemme the fuck up, Dean!  Now!”_

“No,” Dean said again.  His voice had hardened.  “You c’nt do that to me Sammy, come at me like you do then freeze me out every time you get mad.  It makes me crazy.  I can’t stand it.”

“I don’t _care,_ Dean, lemme up!”  Sammy was pushing, struggling, bucking wildly under Dean in an attempt to get away.

Suddenly Dean pinned his wrists.  “That’s the problem isn’t it?” he said softly.  “You really don’t care.  Don’t care that you’re torturin me.  It’s all about _you,_ isn’t it?”  You’re a selfish little bitch, Sammy.”   Sam stilled, nervous suddenly, under the hard weight of Dean’s body.  He stared at Dean, silent. 

Dean was looking down at him, his face pale and set.   But his eyes were blazing.  Suddenly he was kissing Sam again, his thumbs digging painfully into Sam’s wrists.  He’d pressed the hard bulge of his cock between Sam’s legs.  “You don’t care,“ he whispered again.  “Don’t care that you’re makin me hate myself.  Turnin me into a criminal, a monster who wants to fuck his own brother, a twelve year old kid.”  He was kissing Sam brutally, his mouth painfully hard on Sam’s lips, his tongue in Sam’s mouth.

Sam was melting.  Dean’s hard mouth, the strong hands holding him down. 

He was lost.

“That’s right,” Sam said against Dean’s mouth.  He was crying, tears thickening his voice.  But his body, his body was burning.  Pressed against Dean’s body.  “You’re right,” Sam whispered painfully.  “I really don’t care about anything else.” 

He was kissing Dean back, letting him into his mouth, his brother feeding on his mouth, Dean lying on him heavily, pinning him.  Sam was moaning again, helplessly, kissing Dean, kissing him.  There was only Dean, Dean’s body covering him, and that was all that mattered.  

But this wasn’t just Sam’s fault.  Dean wasn’t going to get away with telling himself that. 

“And why _should_ I care?”  Sam whispered to him.   “I wasn’t raised to care about anythin else.  Except bein with _you,_ right Dean?  Your little brother. _”_   He kissed Dean again, his hands on the sides of Dean’s face.  And what he said was true, Sam realized, as he kissed Dean, kissed his brother’s mouth _._   This _was_ him.  What he was made for.

Dean, kissing him.  But suddenly he sat up.  “How can you say that to me, Sammy!” he said.  “I didn’t!  I never wanted this!  This wasn’t _my fault!”_   His voice had thinned out, wavering on the edge of control.

Sam sat up too.   He faced his brother silently.  Dean was looking at him like he’d never really seen Sam before.  Or anything like him.  Like Sam was a new thing, altogether, and frightening.  

“I did the best I could,” Dean said to him.  “Sammy.  And it wasn’t for me.  It was for _you._   All this time.  I did the best I could for you.”  His voice was trembling.

Sam felt anger rising again, a dark bitter tide.  “Sure Dean,” he replied in a low voice.  “You keep tellin yourself that.” 

They stared at each other.

Then Dean got up, disentangling himself from Sam shakily.  “I’ve gotta go out, Sammy,” he said.  “I can’t be in the same room with you right now.”  He turned, reaching blindly for his jacket.

Sam stood up quickly.  He stepped forward, put his hands on Dean’s waist.  “No,” he said.  Dean halted, staring down at him.  Sam raised his mouth.  “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.  He put his lips softly on Dean’s mouth. 

Dean stood motionless.  But then Sam felt him shudder.  Felt his mouth open.

Dean was kissing him again. 

Kissing Sam, his eyes closed, his arms tight around Sam’s back.  Breathing raggedly into Sam’s mouth, kissing him over and over, sweet kisses like honey.   Hugging Sam, rocking him, Sam starting to smile under the sweet press of Dean’s mouth.  And then Dean put his hands on the sides of Sam’s face. Drew back slightly.  He was breathing hard.  “Sam…Sammy, let me go out…Just for a bit, okay?  I gotta get us food.  We don’t have anythin to eat here… Aren’t you gettin hungry?”

Sam barely heard him.  Dean's body against him, his lean, muscular frame.  Sam rose up on his toes, rubbed himself against Dean, against Dean’s crotch.  Dean’s eyes darkened.   Then Dean grasped Sam’s hips.  Moved him away.  “Sammy, seriously…Please…lemme go out ‘n’ get us some dinner.  I’ll come right back.  Okay?”

Sam sighed.  “Okay,” he said reluctantly.  “But you’ll come right back, right?”  His arms were around Dean’s waist.  He put his head on Dean’s chest.  Dean was holding him, his face buried in Sam’s neck.  “I’ll be right back,” Dean said.  “Just grab us some groceries for breakfast ‘n’ some takeout.  And we c’n get popcorn.  Would you like that?”

Sam was leaning against him, the warm wall of his brother’s chest.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That sounds great.”  His arms were locked around Dean’s waist.

Dean was trying to undo him, gently.  “Sam…SammySam…c’mon, let go of me now.  It’s okay.  I’ll only be a few minutes.  Okay?”

Sam wasn’t ready to let him go yet.  “I’m really sore, Dean,” he said into Dean’s chest.  “You really hurt me, this time.  You hit me real bad.”  He felt tears rising again.  It was true, what he had said.  He snuffled softly.  Felt Dean’s arms tighten around him.

“I know Sammy.”  Dean sounded terribly sad.  “I wish I hadn’t.”

“You really hurt me,” Sam said to him pitifully.

“I know.”  Dean’s voice was wavering again.  “I wish I hadn’t Sammy,” he said quietly. 

Sam raised his head, looked at him.  Dean’s eyes were sad.  He looked very tired.  “I guess I hurt your feelins, huh?” Sam said to him softly.

Dean’s face twisted.  “Yeah,” he said.  He closed his eyes.  Then opened them, looked down at Sam again.  “So…c’n I go now, Sammy?” he asked.  “I’ll only be a few minutes.  You c’n watch TV.  Okay?”

Sam smiled at him.  “Okay,” he said.

Dean took Sam by the shoulders and pushed him gently back down on the couch.  Sam curled up on his side.  He looked up at his brother.  “C’n you get me my pillow Dean?” he asked.  “And the blanket, from the bed?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He brought Sam’s pillow and blanket over.  Tucked the pillow under Sam’s head and spread the blanket over him. 

“’N’ can I have a glass of water?” Sam asked.  “Sure,” Dean said again.  He brought Sam a glass of water, watched as Sam drank it.  Sam handed him the glass when it was empty.  Dean turned to put it on the table.  “And c’n I have the remote, Dean?”  Sam asked him.

Dean turned back, looked at Sam for a moment.  Then he glanced around for the remote control, retrieved it from the floor.  Handed it to Sam.  “All set now?” he asked, rather dryly.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He was feeling content.  He looked up at Dean, standing over him.  Raised his arms to him, silently.  Raised his mouth.

There was a strange look on Dean’s face.  He bent down and kissed Sam on the mouth.  Sam leaned into him, closing his eyes. 

Dean straightened up.   “Be good till I get back,” he said.  “And don’t go anywhere.  Don’t leave the room.  Okay?”

Sam smiled at him.  “I won’t.”  Dean looked at him.  “I’ll be good,” Sam added.  “I’ll stay in the room, I promise.”

Dean nodded.  Then he picked up his jacket, patted the pocket where he’d put the wad of their dad’s cash, and shrugged it on.  Let himself quietly out the door.  Sam heard him locking it, from the other side.

Sam burrowed down on the couch, waiting.  Things would be okay.  His butt was sore as hell, but on the bright side, no dad.  Just Dean, Dean all to himself, for two whole weeks.  Dean to kiss and snuggle with, to watch admiringly _(his big brother, his beautiful face),_ and to watch Dean looking at _him,_ with that everything look that was just for Sam.  Dean.

Sam waited, patiently, then not so patiently.  Dean had been gone for over an hour.  What was going on?

Two hours.  Sam was in agony.  It was dark outside.  Should he go out looking?  But he had no idea where Dean was.  And he really was too sore to walk far.  Even going to the end of the parking lot seemed like too much.  And what if Dean came back and found him gone?

Three hours.

Maybe he should call Dad.  But that would get Dean in trouble.  A whipping.  Sam wasn’t going to be the cause of that.

Dean.  Where was he?

Four hours.

Dean, Dean.

Five hours.   

Sam was huddled up on the couch, crying.

Six hours.

Sam had drifted off to sleep, but he was up again.  He looked at the clock radio by the bed. 

It was after one in the morning.  Where was Dean?  Sam was sobbing now, his breath hitching in his throat.  This was all his fault.  He had made Dean go away.  Scared him off. 

He was so sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.  Come back.

Two in the morning.   Was Dean dead?  Sam sat frozen on the couch.

Then a sound at the door.  The lock.  Sam sprang up, nearly tripping over the blankets wrapped around his legs.  His eyes were fixed on the door.  It opened.

Sam was smiling, a great wash of relief starting to roll through him in anticipation of the sight of Dean.    Dean was back.  He’d come back to him.  And Sam wasn’t going to be mad.

But it wasn’t Dean who came through the door.

It was his dad.


	14. Chapter 14

Tears were streaming from Dean’s eyes.  He didn’t wipe them away.  He walked, almost blindly, along the gravel shoulder of the busy road that ran by their motel, the road leading into town. 

It was night and the passing cars had their headlights on.  They shone blurrily through the tears in Dean’s eyes like light through rain.

Dean was crying as hard as he ever had in his life, and it didn’t feel like he would ever stop.

Sammy’s face, in front of him, his shining eyes.

The slender arms around Dean, Sammy’s cheek rubbing against him, the glide of that smooth, soft skin, a girl’s skin.  A child’s.

His mouth, opening under Dean’s, that soft mouth.  His voice, whispering to Dean _(Dean’s name)_.  Moaning, purring like a cat.

A wave of remembered pleasure crashed through Dean again, even now, unbearably sweet, rolling through him.  He stumbled slightly, halting mid stride, his whole body thrumming at the memory of Sammy, pressed down under him, his slight lithe body opening to Dean like a flower, his lips, seeking.

Dean stood frozen, by the side of the road.  Then he wrapped his arms around his middle, bending over, his eyes squeezed shut.  He was gasping, struggling for breath, dizzy.

Sammy.

A car horn blared, bringing him back to himself.  Dean straightened up, started walking again.  He wiped his eyes.

Somehow, they were going to go on from this. 

Dean didn’t know how, quite yet.  But they would.  They would figure it out, he would figure it out, for him and Sammy both. 

They had no choice but to figure it out, to continue to exist together.

But he didn’t know how, just yet.

And he didn’t know how to face Sammy, right now.  Or in an hour.  Or ever.

He was so…appalled.  Ashamed.  Furious, at this whole situation.

And so full of grief, so sad that they could have come to this place, him and his brother, who meant more to him than anything, who he’d looked out for and protected and raised from a baby. 

He’d cared for Sammy his whole life.  And this was where it had taken them.

What did that say about _him?_

Tears were running from Dean’s eyes again.  He wiped them away.

They would go on, from this.  He would figure it out.  He had no choice. 

Because of Sammy, because of what Sammy had said.

Sammy hated their life.  In spite of Dean’s efforts, in spite of all he’d done.

Sammy hated their life and wanted more than anything to leave.  Dreamed of leaving (ideally with Dean), him and Dean taking off into the sunset together.

And Dean could see that, if he ignored Sammy’s unhappiness, his miserable tolerance of life with Dean and their dad, their neverending journey pursuing darkness across the roads of America, if Dean pretended he couldn’t see that…

…then eventually Sammy wouldn’t see Dean anymore, at all. 

His eyes would turn away from Dean, towards the future only.  The way out.  Escape.

And Dean couldn’t have that.  

Because he wasn’t giving Sammy up.

Sammy wasn’t going anywhere.  Dean wouldn’t allow it.

Dean was walking through a commercial area of town now (not a thriving one, their dad never picked motels near _good_ parts of town).  He passed a second hand clothing store, pawn shops, a shabby looking nail salon _,_ all shut down for the night.  A series of empty storefronts, with boarded up windows.  There was a corner store another block down ( _liquor, snacks, cigarettes_ ) where he and his dad would pick up groceries (and his dad would replace his whiskey bottle, every couple of days).  Dean would go there.

But once he reached the store, he stood silently outside the bright windows.

He couldn’t go in.  He was still too upset, and it was all over his face, that he’d been crying.

Dean kept walking.

He’d reached the downtown (not the _good_ area of downtown).  Passing old brick buildings, dark alleyways between them.  Streetlights shining dimly down over dingy parked cars.

Dean automatically patted the pocket containing his butterfly knife.  Not that he was worried (he was the most dangerous thing out here, unless there was a vampire in the neighbourhood).   But trouble had a way of finding hunters.  And Dean wasn’t sure right now whether that might not be a good thing.  A distraction.

He was outside some sleazy hotel (rooms, hourly).  A set of stairs, just on the other side of the door to the hotel lobby, leading downwards to a basement entrance, above the stairs a flashing neon sign _(Girls, Girls, Girls)._   The neon outline of a blonde.

Dean paused briefly, then turned and went down the stairs.  It would be dark inside, hiding the marks of his tears.  And sure he was underage but he had his fake ID.  Not that he figured he’d need it, in this place.

He opened the heavy, scarred wooden door, let himself in.  A smallish, dim, low room, the musty smell of old smoke and beer, some eighties dreck playing on the sound system.  A bar to one side, a small rectangular stage, its brass pole shining under overhead lights, but the stage empty.  The room not crowded on a Wednesday night, a few men sitting here and there, a scantily clad waitress making her way between the tables. 

Dean scanned the room.  Unremarkable types, civilians as far as he could tell from here.  A heavy, beefy guy, standing in front of him.

“Kid, you old enough to be here?”  Not a question.

Dean handed him a twenty.  “I have ID says I am,” he said.  “You need to see it?”   

The man shrugged, stepped aside.

Dean made his way over to the bar, sat down.  “C’n I have a beer?” he asked the bartender.

The bartender surveyed him, looked over his shoulder at the bouncer, looked back at Dean.   “Which?”

“El Sol.”

The bartender stared.  “El _Sol?_   Sorry sport, don’t carry that.  I c’n get you a Bud.”

Dean shrugged.  “Sure.”

The bartender opened a bottle, set it down in front of Dean with a thud.  Dean paid.  Tipped.  Raised the bottle of beer to his lips, drained about half in one gulp.  Set the bottle down. 

He was looking down, staring at his hands.  Looked up briefly.  The bartender was watching him.  He met Dean’s eyes then looked away.

The canned eighties pop had stopped.  Dean turned around.  The stage lights were off.

Then the rough, raw sound of Pantera’s Cemetery Gates, blasting.  Dim red lights lit up the stage, illuminating a slender girl with long brown hair, wearing a tiny pair of denim cutoffs and a tight plaid Daisy Duke shirt, tied under her breasts.   Red patent leather platform stilettos.

She started to dance, swaying her body, the hair swinging. 

Dean watched, drinking his beer.

The girl was tossing her hair, swinging herself around the brass pole, curving her body around it.  The round ass, curving out from beneath the tight shorts, the slender arms and legs.  Dean watched.

She was facing forwards now, staring out towards her audience with a blank expression on her face as the music rumbled through her body.  Flicking her eyes over the men seated at the tables, the few seated at the rail near the stage.  Dean looked at her pale, pretty face, framed by the dark hair, under a wash of red light like blood.  Her eyes went to the bar, glanced briefly over Dean. 

Then looked back.  Dean saw her pause slightly, her eyes widening as she stared at him.  Then she kept dancing, but glanced at him again.  Dean finished his beer.  Turned towards the bartender.  “C’n I have another?”

The bartender put another bottle in front of him.  Dean paid.  Tipped.  Drank, the cold liquid running down his throat.

Sammy.  Handing Sammy his glass of water.  Dean closed his eyes.

The song was over.  Dean opened his eyes, looked at the stage.  The girl was gathering up the few dollar bills the men at the rail laid on the stage in front of her.  Stingy schmucks.

Def Leppard was up.  The girl was undulating, her hips rocking, butt swaying.  Her eyes were on Dean.  Her hands were at the tails of her shirt.  She undid it, shrugged it off.  The round white tits.  She met Dean’s eyes again.  Smiled.

Dean finished his beer.  Said over his shoulder, to the bartender.  “Gimme another.”

The bartender looked at him.  “Don’t get drunk on me kid.”

Dean snorted.  “Gimme a break dude.  Three beers ain’t goin to do it.”  Laid his money on the table.  The bartender shrugged, put down another bottle.

Dean picked it up, made his way towards the stage.  Sat down at the rail, looking up at the girl.  She was smiling at him, started shaking her breasts under his nose.  Dean smiled back, put a couple of bills on the stage.  The girl swept them up in a smooth motion, winked at him.

Dean sat back, took a deep swig of beer.  Glanced to the side.   One of the other men at the rail was staring at him.  Dean looked back at him coldly.  Perv.

He took another long swallow of beer, finishing it.  Looked up at the girl.  This close, she looked very young, with a smooth tight skin, couldn’t be much older than him, really.  And her little tomboy outfit.  Catering to creeps with a taste for underage.

A sharp pain ran through Dean again, suddenly, clenching his gut.  He bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly. 

He was not going to think about Sammy.  Not in this place.

Dean opened his eyes, looked up.  The girl was gazing at him.  He glanced over at the man beside him again.  The man’s eyes were still on Dean.  Abruptly Dean registered him as more than just a lump.  A large framed middle aged man with dark hair, in a dark dress shirt.  Dean looked away, remembering. 

A weekend drive, a couple of months ago, to Buffalo.  Their dad asking Dean to come out with him Saturday night, leaving Sammy at the motel.  Ending up in a divey, seedy strip joint (much like this one actually), his dad slipping money to the bouncer to let Dean in.   His dad had bought Dean a beer, asked him to walk around a bit, put himself close to the stage, the light catching his hair. 

Bait for a vamp, who had a taste for young blondes apparently, of either sex, according to his dad’s information.  Who wouldn’t pass up the chance to turn a kid who looked like Dean.

And hadn’t. 

The vamp dying in an alley, a couple of hours later, beheaded by his dad’s machete.  Dean backed up against a wall, the skin of his throat still tingling against the close call, the vampire’s teeth snapping.

The blood, pooling around his feet.

“Good work son.”  His dad’s hand on his shoulder.   Dean shrugging like it was nothing, but pleased anyway. 

Then the two of them driving back to their motel and a grouchy, sleepy Sammy, nestled in his covers, his silky mop of hair on the pillow.

The girl was tossing her head to the beat of the music, the long brown hair flying.  Dean looked up at her, swallowing. 

“C’n I get you another?”  The waitress, beside him.

“Lemme have a whiskey,” Dean said, his eyes on the girl on stage.  “Dewars if you got it.”

“Sure.”  The glass of amber liquid in front of him.  Dean paid.  Tipped.  Picked the drink up and tossed it back.

The girl caught his eye again then turned her back on him, gyrating her ass.  Hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her cutoffs and peeled them down.  Dean watched her round, small white cheeks emerge from the denim shorts.  She was wearing a lacy red thong underneath, with little satin bows. 

Dean was abruptly really turned on.  He leaned forward.

The girl was wriggling out of her shorts.  She turned around, pretending to notice her audience for the first time, her mouth opening in shock.  She straightened, covering the cheeks of her ass modestly with both hands, shaking her head in mock reproach at the men watching her, at Dean.  Dean laughed.

But then he remembered Sammy, standing in the corner where Dean had put him, his head to the wall, crying.  His little ass covered with red welts.

Dean had done that to him.

Dean looked down, sharp pain flooding through him again.  He closed his eyes tightly.

The song was finished.  Dean opened his eyes.  The girl was crouched on her haunches, in front of him.  They looked at each other briefly.  Then Dean peeled a couple more bills off the wad in his pocket and laid them on the stage, without looking at them.

The girl glanced at the bills but didn’t pick them up.  The third song started, Led Zeppelin this time (this girl had good taste).

The girl was flirting, swaying over the other men seated at the rail, her movements a slow grind, in keeping with the song.  The red thong had come off at some point, displaying the tender, clean shaven lips of her pussy.  Dean watched quietly.

The song was over, applause, men laying down bills on the stage.  Dean laid down another bill.  The girl gathered up her money, smiling.  She left.  The stage went dark.  Then lit up again, bright pink lights this time.  Another dancer starting her set.

Dean watched idly.  The whiskey was beginning to work in him, calming him down.  Maybe after another shot (or two), he’d be able to get up, go back to the store, stock him and Sammy up for food (get Sammy his popcorn).  Go back to their motel room.  Sammy would be sleepy by now (and maybe, hopefully, asleep).  Him and Dean could talk tomorrow.  Figure this out, how the two of them could go on, from what had happened.

“Hey big spender.”  Dean looked up.  The dark haired dancer standing beside him.  She’d changed, now wearing a tight little black slip, dark stockings, heels.  “Buy me a drink?”

Dean smiled at her.  “Sure.”

She sat down beside him, gestured at the waitress.  “Another for him.  And could you please bring me a vodka ‘n’ cran?  Thanks hon.”

Their drinks on the table.  Dean paid.  Tipped.  The girl touched her glass to Dean’s, took a delicate sip.  “What’s your name angel?”

Dean hesitated.  Then answered, “Dean.”  Picked up his glass and downed about half.

The girl raised her eyebrows.  “Easy there Dean.  Let me keep up with you.”

Dean nodded.  “Uh huh.  There even any vodka in there?”

The girl smiled.  Took another delicate sip of her red drink.  “I’ll never tell.  My name’s Clara by the way, thanks for asking.”  She held out her hand.

Dean looked at her extended hand with some surprise.  Then shook.  “Clara.  That’s kind of a weird name for a stripper.”

She smiled.  “My middle name’s Bambi.”

Dean laughed. 

Clara was looking at the fading bruises on Dean's forearms, left over from the werewolf hunt, a couple of weekends ago.  "Like things a little rough, huh angel?"

Dean snorted.  "You have no idea," he said dryly.

Clara was smiling at him, her head tilted to one side.  “You look a little young to be here Dean,” she said.  “How old _are_ you anyway?”

“I look about as old as you,” Dean replied.  “How old are _you,_ anyway?”

Clara shrugged.  “As old as you want me to be,” she said.  It sounded liked she’d said that line many times before.

Dean smiled.  “Well I’m as old as I need to be,” he said, “So I guess we’re both good.”  He felt his smile hardening at the edges, turning bitter.  He looked down.

“You look sad, Dean,” Clara said softly.  “Everything okay?”

Dean was looking down.  “No,” he said, eventually.  “Nothin’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said.  “You want to talk about it?”

Dean shook his head, silent.

Clara put her hand on his knee.  Dean looked up.  “I have something that will make you feel better,” Clara said.  Her eyes were shining softly, mischievous. 

“What’s that?” Dean asked briefly.

“A private dance,” Clara said.  “In the back, away from these bozos.  What do you say?”

Dean looked at her.  She was leaning forward, her wide dark eyes gazing at him.  The slender arms and shoulders, the smooth supple skin, glowing in the pink lights of the stage.  The long gleaming brown hair, like brown silk.

Without thinking, Dean stroked a hand over her hair.  He saw Clara’s eyes widen in surprise.  She leaned slightly into his caress before drawing back.  Then she smiled at Dean again.  “You’ll enjoy it,” she said softly.  “C’mon.”  A few strands of hair had fallen over her face and she blew them back, absently.

Abruptly Dean saw Sammy’s face.  Sammy bundled up in his blanket, smiling up at Dean from the couch, eyes bright beneath his floppy, silky mop of hair.  Sammy lying there.

Dean stood up abruptly.  “I can’t.  I have to get goin.  There’s someone waitin for me.”

Clara looked disappointed, then shrugged.  “Okay.  But you come back to see me, okay?”

“Sure,” Dean said politely.

Clara smiled at him.  Then said,  “She’s a lucky girl.  Whoever she is.”

Dean froze.  A sharp pain was lancing through him yet again.  He stood there, frozen, unable to breathe.

Clara was looking at him, concerned.  “Dean?”

Dean’s eyes were closed.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.  How could he think that anything here could be fixed by _talking?_ Sammy glaring at him, his eyes black with rage at Dean's weak, pathetic words.  That Dean could even think he _had_ the words, the words that could fix this.

A voice from the back.  “Siddown asshole!”  Dean standing, frozen.

Clara stood up.  She picked up Dean’s drink, took his arm.  “C’mon.”  Led Dean away from the stage, her hand on his arm.

They were back at the bar.  Clara slid onto a stool, handed Dean his drink.  “Here.”  Dean finished it obediently.  He leaned his back against the bar, staring vacantly at the stage.  Maybe he’d stand here for the next few hours, the night, the next day, forever, his body turning to stone.  Become a ghost, hovering over these men and girls, never leaving this dark place.

Never seeing Sammy’s face again _(never facing him)._   His eyes were closed.  Sammy’s face.

Clara was silent.  Maybe she’d left.  Dean wouldn’t have blamed her.

Then a gravelly voice.  “Clara, introduce me to your friend.”

Dean opened his eyes.  The large dark man who’d been sitting next to him at the rail was there, smiling at him.  Clara was behind him.  “Dean, this is Matt, he owns the place,” she said.  “Matt, this is Dean.”

Matt held out his hand, smiling.  “Nice to meet you Dean.”

Dean looked at the outstretched hand.  These strip club types were pretty polite, he noticed.  It was kind of weird.  He shook.  “Matt.”

“Clara, can you please give us a minute?” Matt said.  “And remember, you’re still working.”

Clara nodded, left.  Matt looked at Dean, smiling.

Dean stared back him silently.

“How old are you, Dean?” Matt asked.

“Sixteen,” Dean said.

Matt nodded, unsurprised.  “How’d you get in?”

“Slipped your bouncer a twenty,” Dean said.

Matt nodded again.  “I’m firing him,” he said mildly.

Dean snorted.  “You’re not firing him.  You like it when kids like me show up.  And he knows it.”

Matt smiled.  “Uh huh…you’re not one of those dumb blondes, are you Dean?”

“No,” Dean replied.

“Another drink?” Matt asked him.

Dean shook his head.  “No thanks.  I need to get goin.”  He straightened up.

Matt nodded.  Gestured to the bartender.  “Another one for my friend here.”  The drink set down in front of him.  Dean looked at it then shrugged.  Drank.

“So what’s a…`kid like you'? Dean?” Matt asked him.  “What do you think I’m...looking out for?”

“I dunno,” Dean muttered.  He was starting to feel the alcohol, in spite of himself, the whiskey and beer combining uncomfortably in his empty stomach.  “What kind of freak floats your boat?”

Matt eyed him consideringly. “You think you’re a freak, son?”

Dean looked down, his face twisting.  He didn’t answer.

“When I look at you…I don’t see a freak,” Matt said.  “An unusual kid, maybe.  Haven’t seen too many that look like you, Dean, maybe none.  But you’re not a freak.  Far from it.”

Dean stared at him coldly.  “Don’t be a perv,” he said.

Matt laughed.  “You should cheer up son.  You look like you lost your best friend.”

Dean looked down.

“I saw you flashin the cash earlier,” Matt continued.  His gaze flicked over Dean’s threadbare jeans, his frayed second hand sweatshirt and jacket.  “Win somethin?” 

“Earned it,” Dean snapped.

Matt nodded.  “You got a roll, we have a game you might like to join.”

“What kind of game?” Dean asked suspiciously.

Matt shrugged.  “Card game.  Me ‘n’ some friends.  I’ll ante you in, first hand.  Might cheer you up like you need.”

Dean shook his head.  “No thanks.  I should go.”

Matt smiled at him.  “You wanted to go Dean, you’d already be gone.  What difference will another hour make?”

Dean was gazing out at the stage, at the low room in front of him, this loud, dark, nowhere place.  The man had a point, he realized.  This felt like a good place for him.  Because he was nowhere.

“I’m going back to the game,” Matt said.  “They’re holdin my spot.  Join us if you like, be glad to have you.  And Clara’ll sit with you.  You liked her, didn’t you?”  He nodded and turned away, started making his way across the room.  Dean saw him incline his head at Clara, who was leaning over a couple of seated men, chatting them up.  Saw her nod, speak to the men apologetically, then follow Matt.

Dean picked up his drink and followed her.

He was in a narrow corridor, a metal door at one end, Matt and Clara ahead of him.  Matt opened the door, held it open for Clara, and entered behind her.  Glanced back at Dean and nodded.  Dean followed him.

Entered a long, low ceilinged room, carpeted, with an eight sided card table and chairs at one end, and what looked like photography studio gear at the other, including a large white backdrop screen and black metal photographer’s lights on stands.   A couple of couches were pushed against the walls.

There were four men seated at the table, a skinny guy in his thirties, two largish, middle aged men about Matt’s age, and an old dude, elegant in a dark suit, who looked to be in his seventies.  They were smoking, a yellow haze rising towards the dim overhead lights.  Their faces had the dry, cured look of longtime nicotine addicts.  There were cards, drinks and poker chips in front of each of them and a pile of chips in the middle of the table.  An empty seat next to the old guy, with a half finished drink, a stack of chips.  Two girls, strippers from the look of their clothes, a little older than Clara, were seated behind the men, observing the game only.  They were smoking too.

The group had glanced up casually as Clara and Matt entered.  But then their eyes fell on Dean.  Everyone went still, staring at him.

Dean shifted uncomfortably.  He should have been used to this by now, it had happened so often.  But he wasn’t used to it.  I mean, how could he get used to total strangers stopping whatever they’d been doing and staring at him like they’d been gobsmacked?  That didn’t get more normal.

“Fellas, this is Dean,” Matt said.  “He’s joining us.  I’ll ante him in,” he said to the skinny younger man.  The skinny man nodded.  The old guy had claimed the pile of chips at the centre of the table.  Everyone else sat, waiting.  Matt seated himself in the empty chair with the drink and stack of chips in front, pushed a couple of chips into the centre.  Gestured to the chair beside him.  “Have a seat Dean.”  Dean sat down silently.  “And Clara, you sit beside your friend.  But don’t get frisky.”

“Yes Matt.”  Clara sat down next to Dean.  She leaned against him and smiled, pressing a breast against Dean’s arm.

Matt frowned at her.  “Behave, Clara, or you’re gettin a spankin.”

“Yes boss,” Clara said demurely, looking down.  Pressed her thigh discreetly against Dean’s.

The skinny younger man was dealing out the cards.  He nodded at Dean.  “I’m Randy.”  Dean nodded back.  Looked at his hand.  Two pair.  Not bad.  Dean looked up.  The rest of the players were nodding, smiling at him.  Dean nodded back.

The bets went around the table.

Clara was pressed against him again.  Dean looked up from his third decent hand in a row, turned to her, smiling.  “Raise,” she whispered.  “You’re doin good.”  Dean kept playing. 

Clara leaning against Dean’s shoulder. “Beautiful angel,” she whispered to him.  Dean glanced up from his cards.  There was a large pile of chips in front of him now.  He’d doubled his dad’s money and then some.  He felt loose, relaxed, the whiskey running sweetly through his veins.  He felt a sudden great affection for this girl beside him.  “Why are you here, Clara?” he asked, with friendly interest.

She smiled at him.  “This is the best place for me right now,” she said.  “Same as you.”

Dean frowned.  “It’s not for me,” he replied.  “I’m not stayin much longer.”

“It is,” Clara said to him.  “You’ll see.”

Dean kept playing.

The game wasn’t going his way anymore.  His pile of chips, such a large stack a few hands ago, had diminished alarmingly. 

Randy was looking at him.  “To you, Dean.”

Dean was staring at his hand.  Crap cards, nothing worth bidding on.   “Check,” he muttered.  The bids went around the table again.  The old guy placed a bet, tossing a chip into the pile at the centre.  Then Matt raised him, throwing two chips in.  Eyes were on Dean again.   Dean was starting to sweat.  The loose feeling of the whiskey had left him, only an empty, sick feeling in his stomach now.  He was significantly down, not even fifty bucks of his dad’s grocery money left.  If he folded, him and Sammy wouldn’t have enough cash to survive on for the next two weeks.  He slid two chips into the centre of the table.  “Discard three,” he said to Randy, pulling three of his crap cards out of his hand and laying them down.  Randy nodded, dealt him three more.  Dean looked at them, holding his breath.  His stomach dropped.  His hand hadn’t improved. 

Matt had won the round.  He gathered up his pile of chips and looked at Dean.  “Keep goin sport?” he asked.  Dean nodded, helplessly.  He couldn’t stop now.  He ante’d up.   

Kept playing.

Dean’s chips were gone.  He stared silently at the empty space on the table in front of him.  All his money, him and Sammy’s money, gone.  Randy was dealing again.  “Still in?” Matt asked him.  “I can’t,” Dean said.  “I’m all out.”  He was shaking.  Stood to leave.

Matt shook his head.  “I’m sorry kid.  That’s the way things roll, sometimes.”

Dean was looking at his feet.  If he glanced up, if he met the eyes of these cockroaches who’d just ruined him, he would explode.  “Yeah,” he muttered.

Matt shaking his head.  “Kid, I hate to see you leave like this.  Tell you what.  I’m gonna help you out.   You have a little fun with Clara here, and I’ll give you your money back.  Double it even, if we like the show.”

Dean stared at him.  Then he looked at Clara.  She met his eyes briefly then looked away.  “Fuck off,” he said to Matt.

Matt smirked.  “You’re a prime kid, Dean.  You know that, so don’t look so pissed.  This is a chance for you to make some decent coin.  I’ve got buyers who’d pay good bucks for footage of a boy like you.  And you get to fuck a pretty girl like Clara here.  What’s not to like?”

Dean looked at Clara.  She stared back at him, her eyes empty.  Sammy’s face was before him suddenly.  If he wasn't asleep, Sammy would be frantic, by now.

Dean thought about Matt’s offer.  How long would it take to satisfy these pervs?  Maybe an hour.  And then he’d have his money back and more.  He could get back to Sammy.       

Then Dean thought about Sammy, how he’d been, earlier.  Sammy’s arms around his waist.   Sammy’s lips against Dean’s throat, against his mouth.  Sammy kissing him, his palms on Dean’s bare skin.  Dean shuddering under Sammy’s touch, his whole body on fire, his awareness narrowed down to just Sammy, his understanding of Sammy, of Sammy being with him _(his)_.

That memory.  And then to go from that to this.  Dean’s whole body was cold.

A touch like fire, it had been, consuming him, Sammy’s touch on Dean’s body.   Like fire, purifying. 

And then Sammy’s tears. 

Dean’s tears too, the two of them crying helplessly, overwhelmed.  But still holding each other, kissing each other, their touch on each other’s skin, blazing.  Their tears consumed hissing, into that blazing, cleansing heat. 

Like hunter’s fire, devouring the impure.

Dean’s shame was gone, suddenly.

His terrible sense of shame and regret, of wrongness _(unclean)_ , that had permeated him for hours like the smell of a rotting corpse, that was gone, suddenly.

He was free.

The purifying fire of Sammy’s touch. 

Sammy’s large bright eyes, gazing up at Dean.

 _(I’m your kid)_  

Dean looked at Matt, then the rest of them.  “Fuck all of you,” he said.  “I’m outa here.”  He turned to leave. 

Randy was standing in front of the door, a gun in his hand.  “Not so fast sport.  We’re gonna get our show first.  Then everyone leaves happy.”

Dean sighed.  Then he disarmed Randy in one smooth motion, taking the gun from him and jabbing it up under Randy’s chin.  “I don’t think so asshole.  I’m leavin now, and if anyone tries to stop me or follow me, they’re gettin shot.  ‘N’ I don’t miss, so don’t get any ideas.”  He used the gun under Randy’s chin like a lever to move him out of the way.  Opened the door.  Looked back at the group staring at him, frozen around the table.  “Bunch of sick fucks,” he said to them.  “Don’t think I won’t remember this.”  He looked at Clara.  “You wanna leave, now’s your chance.”  She shook her head silently. 

Dean shrugged.  Then left, Randy’s gun in his pocket.

Walked quickly back through the club, into the street, miserably conscious of his missing wad of cash.   All of it gone, him and Sammy’s cash, cleaned out, gone.  What were they going to do now, for food?

But he was walking, making his way back to Sammy, waiting for him.


	15. Chapter 15

“Where’s Dean?”

Sam was standing rigidly still, clutching the blanket around his body, staring at his dad like death.

His dad didn’t look at him.  Instead, he went to the wall where he’d pinned up the notes and pictures of his recent case, started removing them meticulously and packing them away in a file.  Said over his shoulder, “Since you’re still awake, you might as well make yourself useful and get packing.  I want to be outa here before the sun is up.”

Sam was close to tears.  “Dad!” he said.  “Where’s _Dean?”_

His dad, unpinning his crap from the wall.  “Dean’s on a hunt.”

_“What!”_

“He’s not going to be back for awhile,” his dad said.  “So I’m drivin you to Bobby’s, leavin you there.  Bobby’s expecting you, I’ve talked to him already.”

“What?  _No!”_

“You’re staying at Bobby’s,” his dad said inexorably.  Then in a kinder tone, “I’ll deal with the transfer papers for your school.  You c’n finish out the year in Sioux Falls or homeschool again, it’s all the same to me.  Whatever you want.”

“But what about _Dean?_   He’s still in school too!”

“Dean’s got other things to worry about at the moment,” his dad said briefly.  He’d finished clearing the wall and began packing up the rest of his gear.  “Get a move on Sammy, I could use a hand, here.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam whispered.  Tears were standing in his eyes.  “Dean said he was going out to get dinner.  And then he never came back.  And now you say he’s on a _hunt?_   By _himself?”_

“That’s what I said.  ‘N’ that’s all I’m goin to say about the situation right now.”  His dad kept packing. 

Sam glared at him.  “I don’t believe you,” he said.  “Dean would never just leave like that without letting me know.  I want to talk to him.”

“That’s not possible right now,” his dad said, irritated.

Sam’s chest was heaving.  He forced himself to speak calmly.  “I want to talk to Dean,” he said.  “I want to call him.”

“Dean’s busy,” his dad said.  “He doesn’t need you _botherin_ him right now Sammy, so drop it, okay?  Now _shuddup_ and get packing.  I’m not asking again.  We gotta roll.”

Sam didn’t move.  “No,” he said.  “I’m not goin _anywhere_ until I talk to Dean.  He’d _never_ just leave me like that, dad.  I want to know he’s okay.”

His dad stopped what he was doing, looked at Sam.  “Look Sammy.  Dean’s fine.  But he can’t talk to you right now.”

“When will he be able to?” Sam whispered.

His dad looked down.  “I dunno,” he said.  “Depends on how the hunt goes.”

Sam felt his legs giving out from underneath him.  He sank to the floor.  “I want to talk to Dean,” he said helplessly.  “I want to see him. Dad.”  He was crying.

His dad walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder.  “Sammy, can we please figure that out later?  We need to get goin.”

Sam had his face buried in his hands.  Suddenly he looked up at his dad furiously.  “ _No!_   I’m not goin anywhere without Dean!  I want him back here!” He was shrieking.  “Where is he?  I want him back!  Dad!”

His dad stared at him, perplexed.  “Sammy, c’mon.  You shouldn’t be actin this way.  Get up now.”

Sam was curled into himself, sobbing.  “Fuck you,” he said brokenly.  “I want Dean.  He’d _never_ leave me like this.  I wanna talk to’m, dad.  I wanna talk to’m.”

His dad hunkered down on his knees.  Sammy glanced at him, through tears.  His dad’s concerned face.  “Sam…Sammy…” his dad hesitated.  “…there’s something not right here.  You’re gettin too worked up.  What’s goin on?”

Sammy went cold.  “What do you mean?” 

His dad, watching him.  “I mean…you’re twelve for God’s sake, Sammy.  You shouldn’t be cryin like a baby.  You’re depending on Dean too much.  You need to grow up.  Start acting like a man.”

Sam looked down.  Tears were welling out of his eyes again, uncontrollable.  “What for?” he asked.  “Why should I bother?  Dean’s not here and I don’t _care_ about anythin else.”  He lay down on the floor, buried his face in his arms.  Crying again _(like a baby okay?  fuck you, dad)._   Maybe his dad would just go away.  Let Sam lie on the floor till he was dead.

His dad was quiet.  Then said, “Sam…Sammy…this has gotta stop.”

Sam didn’t respond.  He lay on the floor, feeling the long slow sobs wrack through his body.  His dad was silent.  Maybe he’d take the hint and leave.  Leave Sam to his grief.

Then his dad said, “I haven’t been the best dad to you."  He was quiet again.  Said, “I admit that.”  Sam snorted, listening to this. 

His dad paused.  Then continued, “With my work…the jobs takin me away…I’ve needed Dean to help me.  With you, I mean.  And it seemed okay for you, me leavin your lookin after to your brother.  And for Dean too, he seemed okay with it too, he never complained.  But it’s been too much, I think.  Hasn’t been good for either of you, I c’n see that now.”

Sam had stopped crying.  He was listening carefully.  How much did his dad know?

His dad went on.  “Dean should be able to go off and do stuff on his own without you fallin apart.  He’s turnin into a fine hunter Sammy, and he’s ready to deal with some real situations now.  He needs to be able to concentrate on the hunt without worryin about you all the time.”

Sam didn’t answer.  But the old anger started to rise in him, listening to this, percolating. 

That was how his dad saw him, alright, Sam, the younger son.  A worry.  A burden. A distraction from the things that were _really_ important.

Just by breathing, Sam an inconvenience.  Only to his dad though.  Not to his brother. Not to Dean.

“If Dean’s not focused,” his dad continued, “it could get him hurt or worse.  You understand?  Sammy?”

Sam raised his head.  He was relieved -his dad _didn’t_ know, obviously _(about what had happened Dean what was happening)_ , but furious at the same time.  His dad, telling Sam that it was _him,_ putting Dean at risk.  Some nerve.

“Then why does he need to hunt at _all?_ ” Sam hissed.  “Some dad _you_ are, puttin him in danger.”

His dad stared at Sam, surprised.  Then his eyes went cold.  “Dean’s a hunter,” he said.  “And I’m trainin him to be the best damn hunter out there.  ‘N’ that’s all he _wants_ to be Sammy and if you can’t see that, you don’t know your brother at all.  And danger’s part of the life.  Dean accepts that and so do I.  It’s _you_ who’s the problem here.”

Sam’s eyes were equally cold.  He stared at his dad like a stranger.  “How’s that?” he asked briefly.

“Your attitude,” his dad said.  “Don’t think I don’t see it.  You c’n think whatever you want about me and the way I’ve raised you.   That’s between you ‘n’ me.  And I understand I deserve some of it.  But your attitude’s makin Dean feel bad about what he does.  What he is.  And he cares about what you think, Sammy, you know it and so do I.  And if he’s worryin about you and your little feelins all the time, that’s goin to weaken him.”

Sam was watching his dad as he said these words.  He hated hearing them.  But he was listening.

His dad was looking at him closely.  “Dean c’n handle danger,” he said softly.  “I’ve raised him for that.  But if he’s worried or distracted, Sammy…doubting himself ‘n’ what we do…doubting _me…_ because of _you,_ your attitude, makin him miserable…that’s what’ll get him hurt.  Could get him _killed._   Sammy.  You need to think about that.”

Dean killed.  Sam was shaking.  The things he’d said to Dean, earlier today.  Dean’s raw eyes, staring at him.

“What kind of hunt is he on now?” he whispered.  “Is it dangerous?”

His dad looked away.  “Not very,” he replied briefly.  “Call it more…undercover work.  But that don’t make a difference in the long run, Sammy.   You gotta hear what I’m sayin.  Do you?”

Sam’s lips were trembling.  Dean hurt.  _Killed._   (Because of Sam, because of Sam’s angry words in Dean’s ears, all Sam’s fault).  “Yes,” he said.

“Good,” his dad said.  “So we understand each other.  Dean’s goin to be away for awhile Sammy, and I think it’ll be good for both of you.”

Sam looked down at this, tears welling in his eyes again.  Then he felt his dad’s hand on his shoulder.  “And I’m goin to make a point of spendin more time with you,” his dad said.  “After this job’s done, we’re goin to stay at Bobby’s for a few months and I’m goin to concentrate on your trainin.  And Bobby’ll teach you the lore.  There’s no reason you can’t turn out as good a hunter as Dean.  And when you’re ready, you c’n come out with us too.”  His dad smiled at him, his eyes warm.

Sam barely noticed.  “A few _months?”_ he said, his voice rising.  “How long is Dean goin to be _gone?”_

His dad’s eyes were cold again.  “As long as he needs to be,” he said.  “And the more you whine and complain Sammy, the longer he’s goin to be away.”

Sam was shaking again, furious.  He untangled himself from the blanket, got to his feet.  His dad rose too.  Sam glared up at him.  His fists were clenched.  “You’re doin this on purpose,” he said, tightly.  “Separating us.”

His dad nodded.  “You’re right,” he answered.  “I wasn’t planning to…but I see now, it’s necessary.”

Sam stared at him.

“The way you are with your brother Sammy,” his dad continued.  “It’s not healthy, not for you or him.  And I’m not lettin it go on.  You gotta grow up, stop bein so selfish.  Dean’s not here just for you and you gotta wise up to that.  Give him a break.”

“No,” Sam said, choked.  “You c’nt do this.  I’m not playin along this time.”

His dad’s eyes were hard.  He said, harshly, “Until I see a one eighty degree adjustment in your attitude, Sammy, Dean’s not comin back.”

Sam’s teeth were clenched.  “ _Me_ bein selfish,” he hissed.  “You’re one to talk… _dad.”_ He felt his expression twisting.

His dad stared back at him.  He was pale and his eyes were black with anger.  His expression exactly mirrored the one Sam felt on his own face.  “And if I see you still pullin the same shit when Dean _does_ get back, I’m takin him with me and leavin you behind with Bobby,” he said softly.  “I’m not goin to have you draggin him _down,_ Sammy and I’m not kiddin.”

Sam could barely breathe, he was so angry.  “You think you c’n really do that?” he said bitterly.  “Dean would _never_ leave me behind.  _You_ might, but _he_ wouldn’t.  He could never.”

His dad smiled coldly.  “He just did, Sammy.  Not here now, is he?  If Dean could never do it, he’d be here right now.  Wouldn’t he?  So what does that say to you?”

Sam was crying again, devastated.  “I hate you,” he whispered brokenly.

His dad was shaking his head.  “You don’t hate me,” he said.  “You hate what you’re hearin.  But you need to hear it.  And the sooner you hear it, the sooner it _sinks in,_ the sooner Dean’ll be back.  Do you understand?”

Sam was crying.  Dean gone.  He’d walked out the door and hadn’t come back.  He’d promised Sam he’d come back right away.  But he hadn’t.

His dad, still talking.  “Have you thought that maybe Dean’s not here because he needs a break from _you?”_

Sam crying.  All those hours, waiting.  That’s exactly what he’d thought.  He’d driven Dean away.  All he wanted was Dean _(Dean)_ and he’d driven him away.  Sam wrapped his arms around himself, shaking.  He closed his eyes _(Dean, gone)._

Sam was crying, silently.

“Sammy.”  Suddenly his dad’s arms were around him.  His dad was a strongly built man, his body as hard as Dean’s.  But he was larger, a heavy, solid presence.  His dad was rocking him.  “I’m sorry, Sammy.  I don’t mean to be harsh with you.  We always seem to get off on the wrong foot with each other and I say things I wish I hadn’t.  I’m sorry about that, Sammy.”

Sam was sobbing into his chest.  He put his arms around his dad’s waist.  “I want him back, dad.  I want Dean back so bad.”

“I know son.”  His dad rocking him.  Then saying, softly.  “And he’ll be back, don’t worry.  Because you’re mindin what I said...right?”

Sam was sobbing.  “Yes,” he said, defeated.  A flush of shame ran through him.

Helpless.  He was helpless. 

His hot forehead, resting against his dad’s chest.

His dad rocking him, the strong arms.  “That’s my good kid,” his dad said. 

Sam felt his expression twisting again.  Bile was rising in his throat.  “No,” he whispered soundlessly, his face hidden in his dad’s shirt.  “Not yours.”

***

Dean was fingering Randy’s gun, in his pocket.  What to do with it?  It would be great to be able to sell it, get Sammy and him some cash.  But he didn’t know anyone he could trust, be risking a phone call to either the police or his dad, if he tried to unload it.  Best to throw it away.  Dean turned into an alley, looked around.  Then he quickly unloaded the gun, wiped it for prints.  Threw it in a dumpster.  Walked back to the street, slipped the bullets into a drain.  Kept walking.

The store.  Dean stood outside it.  He felt a bit weak, conscious of his own hunger, hadn’t eaten for hours.  And his head was fuzzy from all those drinks at the club.  He hesitated.  This wasn’t so smart.

But Sammy.  Sammy would be hungry too.  And Dean had been away for far too long.

Dean went in, looked briefly at the clerk behind the counter.  Then he walked to the back of the store, scoping out the food in the aisles.  Something quick, just to tide him and Sammy over.   He'd figure out a better plan tomorrow.

He grabbed a loaf of WonderBread and a jar of Skippy’s, stuffed them in his jacket.  Peanut butter.  Sammy liked jelly in his sandwiches too, but this would have to do for now.  He turned, started walking towards the exit.  The clerk.  “Hey kid.  Buyin anythin?”

Dean glanced at him.  “Sorry, forgot my wallet.  Gotta come back.”

The clerk, smirking.  Then suddenly a shotgun, grabbed from under the counter, pointed at Dean.  “I don’t think so dumbass.  You’re stayin right here while I call the police.”

Dean stopped, spread his hands.  “C’mon dude, I didn’t do nothin.”

“Camera says you did,” the clerk replied.  He had a phone in one hand, dialling.  “Now take that food out of your jacket and put it on the counter.  And smile pretty for the judge.”

Dean was sitting in a small holding room at the police station.  They’d taken the cuffs off him.  The cop handling him had raised his eyebrows at the bruises on Dean’s wrists and forearms, but hadn’t said anything.  Now they’d left him, with just a bottle of water for company. 

Dean was trying not to panic.  Sammy would be terrified by now, that something had happened.  But Dean couldn’t risk asking to call Sammy, from here.  He thought about their shabby motel room, the wall covered with pictures from his dad’s latest job, those grisly photos of slain, bloody bodies, the killing sites, the maps.  The dartboard with a hunting knife stuck into it.  The cache of weapons, the wardings and salt lines, the demon traps.  The empty whiskey and beer bottles, scattered around.  The empty fridge.  And Sammy, left there all by himself, a scrawny twelve year old kid.  Bruises on his body from his sparring practice with Dean.  And his butt, covered with welts from the beating Dean had just given him.

He couldn’t risk Children’s Services showing up there.  Sammy would be taken away for sure.

Sammy wasn’t stupid.  He’d wait the night out for Dean to come back, call Bobby if Dean didn’t show up or call in by eight a.m., their deadline for code red on an unexpected absence, the deadline used by their dad since they’d been little.   And then Bobby would track down their dad, get him to pick Sammy up, clear their room.  Dean was expecting Bobby and his dad to figure out where Dean was fairly quickly, but if they didn't, he'd ask to call Bobby, let him know.  And then his dad could pick Dean up, get him out of here.

The cop was back.  He sat down across from Dean at the table.  In his hands, Dean’s wallet.  The cop flipped through it, shuffling through Dean’s various pieces of ID.  Dean sighed.

“So,” the cop said.  “I’m guessin that these don’t belong to you.  Not really.  What’s your name, son?”

Dean was silent.

“Y’know,” the cop said.  “You go to one of the highschools around here, all I have to do is call up the principal.  Town’s not that large.  We can figure out who you are pretty quick.  Do I need to get someone out of bed?”

Dean shrugged.  “Dean Winchester,” he said.

The cop nodded.  “Uh-huh.  So where’re your parents Dean?  Do you have a number we can call?”

“My dad’s out of town,” Dean said.  “Business trip.  My mom’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the cop said.

Dean shrugged again.  “It was a long time ago.  And you won’t be able to reach my dad so easy either.”  At this hour, his dad would be hunting or drinking, Dean knew.  Either way, not a good time for him to get a call from the cops.

“So is there anyone else we can call?” the cop asked.

Dean didn’t answer.  He gazed down at his folded hands on the table.

The cop was looking at the bruises on Dean’s arms again.  He got up.  “I’ll be back,” he said.  Left.

Dean sat there, stewing.  Sammy.  Sammy would be okay.  He’d be scared and pissed but he’d be okay.  He’d call Bobby, in the morning.

The cop was back, a woman with him this time.  They both sat down across from Dean at the table.

Dean stared at them silently.  The woman smiled at him.  “Dean, I’m Heather,” she said.  “From Child Protective Services.  And you’ve met Officer Lewis.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

“We’ve spoken with the principal at Westvale,” the woman continued.  “I understand you’ve been a student there for about three months.  Transferred in from a school in Nebraska.  Had some trouble at first but you’re settled in, doing really well now, he said.”

Dean shrugged.  “So?”

The woman was watching him.  “And you’ve got a younger brother at D.G. Jordan Junior High.  Sam.  Am I right?”           

Dean looked at her, his stomach sinking.  “Yes.”

“Where’s Sam right now, Dean?” the woman asked.

Dean swallowed.  “He’s with my dad,” he said.  “My dad had to travel unexpectedly for a few weeks, so he’s leavin Sam at my uncle’s.  They’re drivin over there now.”

“Why didn’t they take you with them, Dean?” the cop asked.

“I wanted to stay in school here,” Dean said.  He smiled at the woman.  “Since I’m doin so well now ‘n’ all.  My dad figured I was old enough to stay on my own.”

“I guess he was wrong then, wasn’t he?” the cop said.  Dean looked down.  He didn’t answer.

“So how do we reach your dad?” the woman asked.  “I take it he doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“No ma’am,” Dean said.  “Hasn’t got one of those yet.”  (His dad had three).

“Where’s your uncle, Dean?” the cop asked.

“Sioux Falls,” Dean answered.  “South Dakota.”

The cop raised his eyebrows.  “That’s bit of a drive,” he said.  “When did your dad and brother leave?”

“A few hours ago,” Dean said.  “They’re drivin overnight.”

“Does your uncle know they’re coming?” the woman asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“What’s his name?” the cop asked.  Dean looked at him.  “Your _uncle’s_ _name,_ Dean,” the cop said.

“Uncle Stevie,” Dean said.

The cop sighed.  “Does Uncle Stevie have a _last name?”_ he asked sarcastically.

“Singer,” Dean answered.

The cop pulled out his notebook and a pen.  “Well give me his number son.  Uncle Stevie’s getting a call.”

“Can I call him?” Dean asked.

“You can talk to him,” the cop said.  “After we do.  He wouldn’t happen to know anything about these fake ID’s of yours would he?”

“No,” said Dean. 

“Where’d you get them?” the cop asked.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  “Here ‘n’ there.  I don’t use ‘em though, just collect ‘em.  Like a hobby.”

The cop nodded.  “Uh huh.  Well I guess we’ll be speakin to your dad about that.  And about the booze we can smell on you.  And the stealin.”

“It was just a loaf of bread,” Dean said, defensively.

“Why were you stealing bread, Dean?” the woman asked.

“I was hungry,” Dean said.  “I didn’t have any money.”

“Didn’t your dad leave you money?” the woman asked.

“He did,” Dean said.  “But I lost it.”

“How?” the cop asked.

“A card game _,”_ Dean said. 

The cop nodded.  “Well I guess we all do dumb things, sometimes.  And what about those bruises on your arms, Dean?  How’d you get those?”

“In a fight,” Dean said.

“With your dad?” the woman asked.

“No!” Dean replied.

“Well who, then?” the cop asked him.  “And don’t say ‘I dunno.’”

Dean glared at him.  “With a werewolf,” he said.

The cop and the woman looked at him.  Dean stared back, silently.

The cop sighed.  “Gimme your uncle’s number,” he said.  “We’ll sort the rest of this out later.”

Dean gave him Bobby’s flag number, the one that would warn Bobby something was up, along with the use of his middle name.  The cop wrote it down and left the room.

The woman stayed.  She looked at Dean.  “Are you worried about what your dad will say, Dean?” she asked him.

“Well, yeah,” Dean said.  “Wouldn’t you be?”

The woman was watching him.  “Are you scared of him?”

“No,” Dean said.  “My dad’s great.  He’ll be disappointed, is all.”

“I understand that you and your brother and your dad are staying at the Cozy Pines Motel out on Highway 7,” the woman said.  “Your principal gave that as your address.”

Dean looked at her.

“Is that right Dean, you’re staying at a motel?” the woman asked him. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “So?”

“Does the motel manager know that you’re there by yourself?”

“No ma’am,” Dean said.  “My dad didn’t have time to tell her.  But he’ll call her tomorrow when he gets to Uncle Stevie’s, make sure everythin’s cool.  We’re paid up till the end of the month anyway.  Housekeepin room.”

The woman, looking at him.  “I could speak with her too.”

“No!” Dean said.  “I mean, thanks…but my dad’ll take care of it.  I’m okay there, don’t worry.”

The woman looked at him again, then nodded.  “I’ll see if Officer Lewis has reached your uncle,” she said.  Left the room.  Dean put his face in his hands.  What a mess.  Sammy.

The cop was back.  “We’ve got your uncle on the phone,” he said.  “He wants to speak with you.  Come with me.  And don’t get smart, or the cuffs go back on.”  Dean followed him silently.

The cop gestured towards an empty desk with a phone.  Dean sat down, picked up the receiver.  The woman and the cop were sitting beside him. 

Bobby’s gruff voice.  “What’n’ tarnation’s goin on there Dean?  What kind of trouble you in now?”

“I’m sorry Uncle Stevie,” Dean said.  “I’m at the police station.  Got picked up for shoplifting.  I’ve been speakin with a cop and a lady from… _Child Protective Services._   They wanted to know where dad was ‘n’ I told them he was on his way to you…with Sammy.  Drivin overnight and can’t be reached, no cellphone, you know?  He’s goin to want to know about this as fast as possible so that he c’n get back here…‘n’ help me sort this out.  C’n you tell him…when he gets to you?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, sounding disgusted.  “I’ll tell’im.  Not a conversation I’m lookin forward to, I’ll tell you that.  Gimme a phone number where I c’n reach you in the mornin.”

Dean looked up at the cop.  “He wants a phone number,” he said.

The cop took the phone back from him and gave Bobby the station’s number.  Then said, “We’ll be keeping Dean here until we hear from his father.  And I’m going to want to speak with Mr. Winchester personally.  Have him ask for Officer Lewis.  Thank you.” He hung up the phone, looked at Dean.  “I’d like to hear what your dad has to say.  Is there anything else you want to tell me son, in the meantime?”

Dean shook his head.  Then said.  “I’m real tired.  Is there anywhere I c’n lie down?  Seeing as you’re _keepin me here.”_

“Yeah,” the cop said.  “We’ll set you up in a nice cozy cell.”  He stood up, gestured for Dean to rise.  The woman stood up also.  “I’ll be back to talk to you in the morning as well, Dean,” she said.  “And I’ll speak to your dad, when he gets here.  We’re going to need to make some arrangements for you while the charges are being sorted out.”

Dean was standing stiffly, exhausted.  “It was just bread and peanut butter for God’s sake,” he muttered.

The woman was looking at him sympathetically.  “We’ll speak in the morning,” she said.

Dean stared at her woodenly.  Sammy.  What would Sammy be thinking, by now?  He’d be frantic with worry and pissed as hell.  But he'd sit tight, follow the drill.  Dean’s stomach dropped, suddenly.  Unless.  Sammy wouldn’t think Dean had walked out on him.  Would he?

Dean was having trouble breathing.  “I can’t stay here,” he said to the woman and the cop.  “I have to go.  _Now!”_

They were looking at him.  “Why?” the cop asked.

Dean felt tears rising, felt himself losing his cool, in spite of everything.  “I just need to go, is all.  It was just a stupid loaf of bread, how c’n you hold me for _that?_   I need to go.  _Lemme go!”_   He was shouting.

The cop’s hand on him.  “Easy son.  We need someone to let you go _to,_ and right now, you got no one.  So you’re stayin put until your dad gets here.”

Dean was shaking.  Sammy wouldn’t do anything drastic.  Would he?  He might be frantic but he’d follow protocol.  Wait until morning.  Give Dean a chance to come back.  Or to call Sammy and explain.

Sammy’s voice _(Don’t leave me)._   His lips against Dean’s mouth.

Tears were standing in Dean’s eyes.  He blinked them away.  He felt his lips trembling and pressed them tightly together.  “You have to let me go,” he said.  “ _Now._   Please.  I gotta get back. _”_  

Sammy’s voice, Sammy’s eyes, gazing at Dean, trusting.  Because Dean had always looked out for him.  Looked after him. _(You’ll come right back, right?)_  

 “Why do you have to get back, Dean?” the woman asked.  “What’s so urgent?”

Sammy.  His Sammy.  His little brother, Dean's own little person, his own Sammy _(You raised me to be yours)._   And now Dean gone, without a word.

Dean looked at the woman, fighting down panic.  “I just need to get outa here, that’s all,” he said.  “Lemme go.  Please.  I promise I’ll come back in the morning and do whatever you need me to do.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, son,” the cop said.  “…Is there something goin on right now you need to deal with?  Something we c’n help with?”

Dean shook his head, closed his eyes.  He wasn’t going to cry, here.  He opened his eyes, looked at the woman and the cop.  “I just need to get outa here.” he said.  Then whispered, helplessly, _“Please.”_

They were staring at him.  Then the woman, speaking.  “Come lie down, Dean,” she said.  “I can see you’ve had an upsetting evening.  We’ll talk tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to get some rest.  Okay?”  She took his arm.

Dean went silently.  Sammy trusted him.  He would wait.  Dean had to trust Sammy, on this.

Dean was lying on a cot in a cell, covered with a scratchy wool blanket.  He’d curled himself up miserably into a ball.  Let the tears roll from his eyes, finally, silent.

Sammy.  Sammy would forgive him, for this.  Once Dean had a chance to explain.  To tell Sammy he’d been on his way back to him.  That he hadn’t left him like this, on purpose. 

Dean would speak to him, in the morning.  And Sammy would forgive him.  

Dean, sitting across from the woman and the cop the next morning, staring at them silently.  He hadn’t slept well, sat slumped in his chair, dragged out and grey, a sour taste in his mouth.  He’d thought about asking to have a shower but _(ick)_ decided to hold off until his dad came to pick him up.  He’d be arriving at some point, to get Dean out of here.  And Dean would call Bobby in the meantime, at least leave Sammy a message.  He opened his mouth to make the request.

But the woman spoke first.  “We’ve made arrangements for you to go to a residential facility, Dean.  Officer Lewis will be driving you over.”

Dean went cold.  “What, like a boys’ home?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the cop said.

“Why?” Dean asked.  “What about my dad?  Didn’t you talk to him?  Isn’t he coming to pick me up?”

The woman and cop looked at each other.  “We talked to him,” the cop said briefly.  “He’s not coming.  Not today, anyways.”

“What!” Dean said.  “Why not?”

“Because,” the cop said, “he thought it was best you stay here for now.”

Dean stood up.  “That’s bullshit,” he said.  “You’re lyin.  I want to talk to him.  Get me on the phone with him.”

The cop stood up too.  “We asked him to speak with you,” he said.  “He didn’t want to.  Said he’d talk to you later.”

“No!” said Dean.  “I want to talk to ‘im _now!_ Get me on the phone to ‘im _now!”_  

“That’s not possible right now Dean,” the cop said.  “Can you sit down please?  Heather and I need to go over a few things with you before I take you to Sonny’s.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I’m not goin anywhere without Dad.  He’d never just leave me here.  He’s comin for me.”

“He’s not, Dean,” the cop said.  “I’m sorry.  Can you sit down now, please?”

“Then I want to speak with Uncle Stevie,” Dean said, ignoring him.  “Lemme make a phone call.”

“There’s not going to be any phone calls right now,” the cop said.  “Now sit down, son.”

“I need to call my uncle,” Dean said.  “You gotta let me do this.”  His chest was heaving.

“No,” the cop said.  “Now sit down.”

“Forget it,” Dean said.  He made for the door.  The cop stood in front of him.  “Dean, sit down.”

“No,” Dean said.  He pushed the cop out of the way, reached for the door handle.  The cop put his hand firmly on Dean’s arm, started to pull him back towards his chair.  “The door’s locked, you idiot,” he said.  “You’re leavin _after_ we finish our conversation.  So siddown.  Now.”

“I’m not sayin two more words to you!”  Dean said.  “So fuck you!”  He yanked his arm out of the cop’s hand.  The cop grabbed for him, more roughly this time.  Dean wrenched his arm out of the cop’s grasp, then cold clocked him on the cheekbone, a fairly hard punch.  The cop’s head snapped back.  “Ow!” he yelped, shocked.

Dean was on him, slamming him against the wall, his forearm against the cop’s throat, the heel of his other hand against the pressure point under the cop’s jaw, the warm throb of the carotid artery.  He felt the force behind his hand, straining for release, the urge to push his hand through the cop’s throat, slamming through a red tunnel, into the wall behind him.  “You let me outa here _now!”_ he was shouting.  “I’m callin my uncle _now!”_

The woman was on her feet.  “Dean!” she said from behind him.  “Stop it!  You’re making a bad mistake here!  Get yourself under control!”

Dean registered her words through a red haze.  Then he took a breath, stepped back.  Lowered his hands. 

The cop was staring at him.  He rubbed his neck.  “That’s assaulting a police officer, kid,” he said.  “Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

Dean looked down.  His hands were shaking.  He didn’t reply.

The cop had his handcuffs out.  He cuffed Dean’s hands quickly.  Dean stood passively, letting him.  “Now _siddown!”_ the cop said.  He slammed Dean into his chair.

“Now…” the cop said.  He was still breathing hard.  He sat down, touching his fingers delicately to his cheekbone.  A lump was rising.  Dean looked at him and snorted.

The cop glared at him.  “Now…as I was sayin…Heather and I have a few questions for you.  Like to clear some things up.”

Dean stared back at him, stonily.  “You talked to my dad, didn’t you?  Any more questions you have for me c’n wait until he gets here.”

The cop smiled.  “Maybe you didn’t hear what I said, son.   Your dad’s not comin any time soon.  I believe his words to me were…`let him rot in jail.’”

Dean stared at him.  It felt like there were shards of glass inside him, breaking.  He did his best to ignore them.  “Then let me talk to Uncle Stevie,” he said.  “Please.”

The cop stared at him.  Shook his head. 

Dean was shaking.  “Look officer,” he said.  “I’m sorry I hit you, okay?  You c’n do whatever you want about that, I know it was wrong.  But just let me speak to my uncle.  Please.”

“There’s not goin to be any more phone calls,” the cop said.  “I’m not feelin inclined to _oblige you_ , somehow, right now.  You don’t want to talk to me and Heather?  Fine by me.  You c’n just sit in jail like your daddy wants.  I’ll take you back to your cell right now.”

“David,” the woman said.

“What?” the officer replied. 

“Let’s take him to Sonny’s, like we arranged,” she said.  “Who knows when his father will show up and Dean’s too young to stay here for days.  And I don’t think we should send him to District, at this point, not before the arraignment.  Not with the kids they have over there.”

The cop looked at her.  “Seems to me Dean would fit right in, with the kids they have over there.”

“Dean’s been distinguishing himself as a model student lately, according to his principal,” the woman said.  “His teachers were all reporting an impressive commitment from him to improve his grades.  This seems to be an unusual incident.  One-time.  And…I mean…look at him.”

The cop and the woman both looked at Dean again, consideringly.  Dean felt his ears getting hot.  Jesus fuck.  When would people get over his face, already?  It wasn’t _his_ fault.

“I dunno,” the cop said.  But the heat had left his voice.  “It looked like he could handle himself pretty well.”

“Maybe against one,” the woman said, “but against more than one?  It’s a risk, David.  You know the kinds of things that could happen.  I think Sonny’s is still the best option.  And he’d be able to manage a kid like Dean, I should think.”

Dean glanced carefully between the two of them.  He didn’t like the idea of leaving before his dad got here (and it wouldn’t be _that_ long, whatever the cop said, it couldn’t be, his dad just needed to make some arrangements, that’s all), but on the other hand, Sonny, whoever he was, would have a phone.  He could call Bobby from there.  He looked down at his cuffed hands, saying nothing.  Did his best to look meek.

The cop stood up.  “Fine,” he said.  “Consider yourself lucky,” he said to Dean.  Took his arm, pulling him up from his chair.  “After what just happened, I’m thinkin District might be a fine place for you.  But I’m goin with Heather’s opinion on this one, for now.  One word from Sonny though, and it’s a different story.  Got it?”

Dean looked at him.  Righteous prick.  One phone call to Bobby was all he’d asked for.  But he kept silent.  Just get him out of here.  Into the vicinity of a phone.

But at least, since his dad had called, Sammy wasn’t alone anymore.  He’d be with their dad, at least.  En route to Bobby’s.  He’d know Dean was alright at least, be waiting for Dean to call him.

Sammy’s voice.  Dean felt a longing for the sound of that voice suddenly, like a physical thirst, parching his throat.  The clear, smooth, slightly darkened tones of Sammy’s voice, like a shot of whiskey.  Like cool water, on a hot day.  He balled his hands, feeling the bite of the handcuffs against his wrists.  Kept silent.

The woman, speaking.  “I’ll follow up with Sonny after you drop him off,” she said.  Then turned to Dean.  “Don’t be worried, Dean,” she said.  “You’ll like staying at Sonny’s.  It will be good for you, I think.”

“Thank you ma’am,” Dean said.  “I appreciate your concern for me.”  He turned the full force of his smile on her, because, what the hell.  She blinked.  Then the cop took Dean’s arm.  “Let’s go sport,” he said.  Steered Dean towards the door.  “But any more crap from you, it’s right back into lockup, got it?”

“Your eye don’t look too good,” Dean said.  “Might want to put your sunglasses on.”

The cop glared at him.  But he took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on before they left the room.

Sonny didn’t seem like such a bad guy.  And the farm was cool.

But the only phone was in Sonny’s office.  Which was locked.

Dean waited for the right moment (which didn’t come until the next day), then picked the lock, let himself in.  Called Bobby, his breath speeding up.  Sammy.

Bobby on the phone.  “Dean.  Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at this boys’ home in the Catskills,” Dean said.  “Sonny’s Home for Boys.  Not in jail like dad apparently wants me to be.  Is Sammy there, Bobby?  C’n I talk to Sammy?”

There was a pause.  Then Bobby voice, a bit deeper.  “Sammy’s out at the library,” he said.  “I dropped him off there for the day.”

Disappointment crashed through Dean.  He slumped in Sonny’s chair.  “How is he, Bobby?” he asked.

“Sammy’s fine,” Bobby said.  “Bit upset at bein yanked out of school, but _that’s_ nothin new.  He’s goin to be homeschoolin with me for the rest of the year.”

“He’s not…mad at me, Bobby?” Dean asked.

“No more’n usual,” Bobby said.  “Why would he be?”

“That I didn’t come back,” Dean said.  “When I said I would.  Did Dad tell him what happened?”

“John told him you were on a hunt,” Bobby said.

Dean was perplexed.  “Why would he tell Sammy _that?”_

“I dunno,” Bobby said.  “But that’s what he told ’im.  ‘N’ he also told me to tell you, when you called like he figured you would, to keep clear of Sammy until he says otherwise.  As far as everyone’s concerned, you’re on a hunt until further notice.”

 _“What!”_ Dean said.  There was an icy lump in his stomach.  “Why’d he say that?”

“I dunno,” Bobby said again.  “But he was real clear with me Dean.  No contact with Sammy until he says so.  And you’re to stay put too, no showin up at my door.  He’ll come for _you,_ and you stay put, otherwise.” 

Dean was furious.  “That’s bullshit, Bobby.  Either I speak to Sammy today or I’m on my way over there.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, his voice dry.  “John figured you’d say that.  He said to tell you that you disobey his orders _again,_ Sammy’s not goin to be on the road with you ‘n’ him anymore.  He’s gonna leave the kid with me permanently, until he’s of age.  Let him finish out school in Sioux Falls.”

“That’s not happenin, Bobby,” Dean said with cold rage.  “I’d never leave Sammy behind ‘n’ dad _knows_ that.”

“Well I guess it’s up to you,” Bobby said.  “You defy John, Dean, and you’re not huntin with him either. You know that, same as me.  So I guess I’ll have the both of you, then, finishin school here.”

“Bobby, for fuck’s sake,” Dean said, frustrated.

“Don’t you swear at me, you idjit,” Bobby’s voice, getting edgy.  “You brought this on yourself.  Why’d you do such a dumbass thing anyway?  It’s not like you.”

“I dunno,” Dean said, defeated.  “I was upset.”

“Well upset doesn’t equal _dumb,”_ Bobby said.  “That’s no excuse at all.  Exposin your family like you did was _not_ cool Dean, and you know it.  My advice to you is to take this as a lesson and toe the line.  John told Sammy that you’re on some sort of important undercover hunt and can’t be reached for the time bein.  Now I don’t know why, but he must’ve had his reasons, and he _is_ your dad.  Sammy seems okay.  So don’t upset things any more 'n' you already have and make a liar out of your dad to your brother.  Understand?”

Dean felt tears rising, choking his voice.  He swallowed them down, not wanting Bobby to hear.

“At least tell Sammy I called, okay?” he whispered.  “Tell him I’m okay and I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“I’ll tell him you checked in,” Bobby said.  “And that you’re fine.”  His voice was milder.

“And Bobby…” Dean hesitated.  “If Sammy starts _not_ bein okay, let me know, alright?  And tell dad to come get me.  Make sure he does, okay?  Don’t let the situation go on.”

“Why wouldn’t Sammy be okay?” Bobby asked.  “Is there somethin I should know about?”

Dean swallowed.  “No,” he said.  “I’m just sayin.  You know how Sammy gets sad sometimes.  And he’s gonna miss me.  So if you see things gettin bad for him, you call me.  Okay Bobby?  Please?”

Bobby sighed.  “Sure.”

“N’ tell dad I want to come home,” Dean said.  His voice was choked, in spite of himself.  “Tell ‘im I’m sorry.  Tell him I want him to come get me.”

Bobby sighed again.  “Sure son.  I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispered.  They hung up.  Dean sat for awhile at Sonny’s desk, his head in his hands.  Then he got up and let himself out, locking the door behind him.

Entered the bathroom, looked his reflection in the mirror. 

Sixteen years old.  A kid, right?

But his dad had never treated him like a kid.  Never.  Not until now.

Why was he doing this now?  It wasn’t fair.

Dean looked at his face, thought of how Sammy would look at him, his bright eyes, shining.

His dad was clearly pissed at him.  And wanted him away from Sammy (but not for the reason Dean was afraid of, if his dad had found out about _that,_ the message from Bobby would have been different, somehow, Dean was sure of it).

Keeping him away from Sammy.  His dad was punishing him, Dean saw, he wanted Dean to learn a lesson.  That his dad might depend on Dean, sure, talk to him like he was an adult, expect him to _act_ like an adult (when it was convenient), but when you came down to it, Dean was still a kid.  A kid who’d do as he was told, or else.

Or else…and that was a price that Dean couldn’t pay right now (and his dad knew it).  Toe the line or make a choice.  The choice of keeping Sammy with him, looking after him like always.  Or hunting with his dad.  Completing that long learning, of becoming, finally, a hunter like his dad.  To those standards of excellence that only his dad could teach him.  

Toeing the line.  Dean, the obedient soldier-son.

Dean looked at his reflection in the mirror.  He saw his eyes, hardening.

There was no choice here.

His dad was wrong.  Dean wasn’t a kid.  Had never been one, and wasn’t about to start now.

He was a hunter.  And he was going to learn what his dad had to teach him, all of it, his dad was going to teach him, no choice here.  He owed Dean.  And his knowledge was Dean’s birthright, it was _him,_ it was who Dean was, and what would keep him alive.

And also...he was going to have Sammy. 

Have him in the way they both wanted.  _I’m yours,_ Sammy had said to him, and Dean would take him up on it.  But in his own time and his own way.  Sammy would get what he wanted but under _Dean’s_ terms.  There was no choice here either.

Sammy owed Dean too.

Dean watched himself in the mirror, as if from a distance.  Saw his own distant eyes, cold, considering. 

His dad wanted him to wait.  Fine.  He would wait.  Take his dad’s punishment.  Like Bobby said, there was no excuse for being dumb.

But when the waiting was over, he would make his terms clear.  To both his father and his brother.

And collect what he was owed.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam was sitting tensely in the back seat of his dad’s Impala.  In his hands, the model plane he’d put together at Bobby’s (to keep himself from going completely insane, I mean, how many dusty books on monsters and how to kill them could a kid read? Model planes were a good antidote).  The plane had been a thirteenth birthday present from Bobby, the first birthday Sam had ever celebrated without Dean being with him (and not much of a celebration without his brother, not at all). Sam had finished the model just before they left (he was pretty happy with how it turned out), and brought it along for the ride (Dean would get a kick out of it –building models was one of the things they’d done together when Sam was little).

They were driving to get Dean.

They’d been driving for hours, through the flat plains of the Minnesota, then miles of Wisconsin woods, then Indiana, Ohio, New York…keeping to the interstates for the most part and skirting the cities.  His dad hadn’t stopped, except for gas and bathroom breaks.  They were even eating in the car, greasy bags of takeout (and Dean would have hated that, he liked keeping the car neat, their dad would joke he was like a housewife about it).

Sam hadn’t complained about their brutal pace (the exact reverse of their trip out, over two months’ ago, also without stopping).  And he was in a much better mood.  Ecstatic, actually.

Because they were driving to get Dean.  Finally.

It had been a hard two months.  Brutally hard.  And harder, because Sam couldn’t show it.  Couldn’t show how bad it had been for him, without Dean.  Not being able to see him, talk to him, touch him, it had been like a physical deprivation, like starving.  Sam had been starving.  He’d actually lost weight (not that he had much to lose in the first place).  Bobby had noticed.  It concerned him, Sam saw, he’d been encouraging Sam to eat.  And Sam had tried (to make Bobby happy, because he loved Bobby).  And because eating was part of not showing how bad it was for him without Dean. 

It was important not to show that.

Because of what his dad had said to him.  That the more Sam showed how much he missed Dean _(and he did he missed him he missed his brother)_ the longer Dean would stay away.  

Sam knew his dad was watching.  Waiting for Sam to show it.  To slip up.  To break their agreement that Sam would change his _attitude._   To give his dad any reason at all not to call Dean off from this stupid hunt and bring him home.

His dad had kept his promise to Sam, for the most part.  After his last hunt was finished he’d showed up at Bobby’s and actually _stayed_ (most days) _,_ and trained with Sam. 

Training with his dad was a lot different from training with Dean.  Not less _intense_ (Dean was intense), but a lot less fun.  Sam had kind of enjoyed the training sessions with Dean (not that he’d ever told Dean that), not because he enjoyed the training itself (hard) or the endless practicing (boring), but just the time spent with his brother.  Dean’s focus on Sam during those times, that was rewarding, on its own.  And the physical contact of their sparring, Sam had always found that enjoyable (and he was pretty sure Dean did too).  Their friendly competition (Sam was just as good a shot now as Dean, and he knew that got Dean riled).  And then the times Dean was insufferable, bossing Sam around and Sam getting mouthy with him (and sometimes ending up over Dean’s knee).  That had its moments too. 

And then these last months, when their awareness of each other had changed. 

When they’d practiced and sparred and competed with each other inside a circle of charged, electric air.  Sam, seeing his brother _(Dean, Dean’s body)_ illuminated suddenly, in this glow of prickling yellow light, like the glow of an approaching thunderstorm.

Sitting with his books at Bobby’s kitchen table, or wandering through the field of rusting cars that surrounded Bobby’s house, Sam would remember, suddenly, just how he'd felt in the proximity of his brother…his whole body sensitized, his skin registering Dean’s presence like warmth.  He would stop whatever he was doing and close his eyes, remembering that. 

And then he would open his eyes, blinking away tears.

Because Dean felt that way too.  Sam knew it. 

He’d seen it, in Dean’s face.  In his eyes, watching Sam, darkened with a new knowledge of him.

Sam had seen it, how Dean felt about him, long before Dean said anything.  Long before he’d kissed him.

And remembering this, Sam would feel tears rising.  At the piercing sweetness of what he remembered.

But that night that Dean had whipped him, humiliated him…

And then kissed him _(kissed his mouth),_ so angrily, reproachfully, like Sam had damaged him somehow.  He’d kissed Sam, crying.  And then he’d left him, disappearing without a word.

Sam could barely think about that night.  His mind would approach the memory and bounce away like a ball.  He couldn’t think about it.  Would not. 

Because he needed to keep going.  To keep training with his dad, under his dad’s watchful eyes.

Demonstrating to his dad that Dean could come back.

Sam couldn’t remember that night.  Because if he did, he would fall apart.  And he couldn’t let himself fall apart.  Not in front of his dad.

He’d put a real effort into training with his dad, surprisingly.  And his dad was surprised, Sam knew, at how good Sam actually was.  He’d really left most of Sam’s training to Dean, just checking in every once in awhile.  Hadn’t been aware of how good a shot Sam was, how consistent with the throwing knives, how deadly Sam could be with a knife, in a fight.  Dean had drilled Sam relentlessly on the lethal pressure points of the body, giving Sam an edge in a hand to hand fight that would make up for his small size, allowing him to surprise and disable his opponent enough that he could run away.  Sam had demonstrated this knowledge to his much larger dad (on him), under Bobby’s admiring eyes, and not without satisfaction (alright, a _lot_ of satisfaction).  And Sam was a good runner too, wicked fast, and with a lot of stamina.  He could outrun his dad easily. 

So his dad had more respect for him now, Sam could see it.  And he’d be lying if he said that didn’t matter.

But it didn’t mean they liked each other any better.  His dad resented him, Sam knew, he always had, ever since Sam was a baby.  He hadn’t left Sam’s raising to Dean so much just because he was busy.  Somehow, his dad found Sam’s presence hard to bear, and that was mixed up with Sam’s mother’s death.  Sam knew this (an old pain).  But there was nothing he could do to change that, and at this point, he didn’t care either.  Fuck his dad, really.

And he knew his dad was watching him, for any sign of weakness _(babyness)_.  Just like Sam watched his _dad,_ for any sign of suspicion, anything that would lead him to keep Dean and him separate.

The respect between him and his dad was the respect of enemies.  Sam knew this.

But that was okay.  Anything that would get Dean back was okay.

A few miles out of Albany, his dad pulled over.  Up until this point, Sam had been sitting in the front passenger seat.

“Sammy, c’n you sit in the back?”

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay?” His dad seemed nervous, Sam noticed.  He got out of the front seat obediently and climbed into the back.  Took his model plane with him.

They were driving over curving, hilly back roads, in between lush farmer’s fields, green with the first crops of June and golden in the light of early evening. 

“Are we close now dad?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” his dad answered, “pretty close.  And Sammy…” his dad hesitated.  “When you see Dean, I want you to…not ask him any questions, okay?  He’s had a hard go of it, these last couple of months.  Probably won’t want to talk about it for awhile.  And he was undercover, a lot of the stuff he _can’t_ talk about.  So don’t pester him, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam answered, surprised, and rather offended _(pester?)_.  “I won’t ask him anything.  I’ll just pretend he was gone for like, a weekend or somethin.  That okay?”

“That’s great,” his dad said.  “Thanks Sammy, I appreciate it.  And so will Dean.”

Dean.  He was close now.  Sammy felt butterflies rising in his stomach.  He clutched the model plane tensely.

They had pulled into a circular gravel driveway, in front of a large white clapboard house with a wraparound porch.  There were lights in the upstairs windows.  Sammy looked up at the house, his heart thumping.

His dad undid his seatbelt, but before he could get out of the car, a lanky man, a bit younger than him, strolled over.  He had long hair in a ponytail and a substantial moustache.  He wore an open, easy smile, but his eyes were watchful.  His dad unrolled his window, and the man leaned down.

“Help you fellas?” he said.

“I’m here to pick up my son,” his dad said briefly.  “Dean Winchester.  I understand he’s staying here.”

The man wasn’t smiling now.  “I take it you are…”

“John Winchester,” his dad said.  “And you?”

“I’m Sonny,” the man said.  “I run this place.”

“Is my son here?” his dad asked.

“Dean’s here,” the man said.  “He’s been doin real well by the way.  You’d be proud of him.”

His dad didn’t acknowledge this.  “Will you tell him I’m here to pick him up, please?  We’ve got a job.”

The man nodded.  Then said, “Dean will be real glad to see you Mr. Winchester.  But this is a bad time for him to leave.  See, he’s got a date to the school dance, and he’s due to pick her up in about twenty minutes.  Is it possible for you to maybe come back tomorrow?  Or later tonight even?”

“It’s not possible,” his dad said briefly.  “I’ve just driven across the country to get him, and the job won’t wait.  He has to come now.  Just let him know.  He’ll understand.”

The man hesitated.  “Mr. Winchester, I don’t want to seem like I’m arguin with you or anything but-“

“Then don’t,” his dad said.  “Just tell Dean I’m here to pick him up and we have to leave.  Now.  He needs to get his things together and be quick about it.”

Sam was cringing at this point (his dad was always so… _gruff_ , I mean, would it kill him to be nice occasionally? _)_ , but for once, he was in complete agreement.  Just get Dean down here already (and what was this about a school dance?  _A date?_ ) 

The man looked at his dad.  His expression was grim now, and he actually looked pretty tough.  His dad didn’t intimidate him, Sam saw, like he did most people.  “I think Dean should have a say in this, don’t you, Mr. Winchester?  I mean, you’re showin up without notice, after a couple of months of no contact, on a real important night for him.  Now I know he’ll be thrilled to see you, don’t get me wrong, but it’s unfair to put him in this position, don’t you think?  What with his date and all.”

His dad sighed.  Sam saw he was close to losing his temper.  “Look…Sonny…I appreciate your interest in my son’s…social life, but we’ve got a _job,_ and that job _won’t wait._   Now if Dean hasn’t gotten all soft here playin Farmer Joe, he’ll understand what that _means,_ and he’ll get his ass _down here._   And I’d like you to _tell him, please._   Or shall I go up ‘n’ do that myself?”

The man was staring at his dad coldly.  Then said, “I’ll tell him.  Let him know he can come down.  If he wants.”

“Fine,” his dad said.  “Do it.”

“And _if_ he comes down,” the man continued, “And wants to leave…I’ll need some paperwork signed before I can release him.  And I’ll need to see some ID.”

“Sure.” His dad wasn’t looking at him anymore.  “Whatever.  Just get him.”

The man turned on his heel without saying anything further and stalked up to the house.

Sam sat silently, frozen.  That sense of impending joy, with him since they’d entered New York State, was gone, wiped clean away.  What did that man mean, when he said “ _If_ Dean came down?”

If Dean didn’t appear in the next five minutes, Sam would die.

His dad was quiet in the front seat.  Sam could see him looking up at the lighted windows on the second floor.  Sam looked up too.  Then his dad suddenly said to him, tensely, “Sammy, stick your head out the window.  Look happy.”

“What?” Sam asked, confused.

“Just do it, Sammy!” his dad snapped.  “Stick your head out the window and look happy!  Now!” 

Sam scrambled to unroll his window, giving himself room to lean out.  He stuck his head and shoulders through, holding the model plane.

“Don’t look up!” his dad said.  “Just look happy.”  He honked the car horn.

Sam pasted a smile on his face.  He pretended to play with the plane, moving it up and down like it was flying.  He saw a movement from the corner of his eye, from the upstairs window.  Didn’t look up. 

“Okay Sammy, you c’n sit down now,” his dad said.  Sam sat back down in the car.  He and his dad waited silently.  Five minutes passed, the longest five minutes of Sam’s life.

Then Sam saw the front door of the house open.  Dean came out.

Sam was out of the car, running towards him.  “Dean!  _Dean!”_   He was crying.

“Sammy.”  Dean’s voice.  He opened his arms.  Sam jumped up, like he was years younger, like he was just a kid again.  He wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist.  Wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, clinging.

“Oof,” Dean said.  But he was holding Sam closely.  He put his face into Sam’s hair, briefly.

“ _Dean,”_ Sam was sobbing.

“Hey Sam, Sammity-Sam.”  Dean was murmuring to him.  “Sammy.”  Dean was rocking him.

“I told that guy to get you right down.  What took you so long?”  Their dad, standing behind Sam, speaking to Dean roughly.

Dean looked up.  “I had to make a call,” he said briefly.  “`N’ Sonny’s waitin for you inside.  Says he has papers for you to sign.”

“Fine,” their dad said.  “I’ll be right back.  You boys get in the car.  We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us.”  He trudged up to the house.

Sam’s arms were wrapped tight around Dean’s neck.  He'd buried his face against Dean’s throat.  He wasn’t letting go, anytime soon.

“Sammy c’mon.”  Dean was laughing.  “You’re chokin me.  Let go now.  What are you, a gorilla?”

Sam was laughing too.  Then he stopped.  He unclasped his legs, slid down the front of Dean’s body. 

Looked up.  Dean was staring down at him.  His eyes had darkened.

Sam’s arms were still clasped around Dean’s neck.  He stared up at him, his lips parted.  Started to speak.  “Dean- “

Dean unclasped Sam’s arms from around his neck, held Sam by his wrists, putting a bit of distance between them.  “Not now, Sammy.  We’ll talk later, okay?”

“But- “

 _“Later,_ Sammy,” Dean said.  He was holding Sam at a distance, firmly grasping his wrists.

Sam frowned.  _Later?_   After all these _weeks?_ Sam had some questions.

“I thought you were on a hunt!” he blurted out, forgetting his promise to their dad about asking Dean questions.  “So what were you doin, goin out on a _date?_   I don’t understand.”

Dean looked grim.  “I c’nt talk about it Sammy.  So don’t ask me, okay?”

“And why didn’t you ever _call_ me, Dean?” Sam asked.  Tears were in his eyes again.  “You just _disappeared_ without sayin anythin.  Couldn’t you have called me _once,_ at least?”

Dean’s face twisted.  “I couldn’t Sammy, okay?  I’m real sorry about that.  I wanted to, believe me.”

“And what’s this about _a date?”_   Sam asked again.  He really wanted to understand about that.

Dean was starting to look pissed off.  He let go of Sam’s wrists.  “It’s _nothin to you,_ Sammy, and I’m not goin anyway, since you ‘n’ dad picked this convenient time to show up.  So c’n we drop it now?”

Sam stared up at him, frowning.  That wasn’t an answer, and he didn’t feel like dropping it.  He was _owed_ some information, here.

Dean was frowning back.  Then he started to smile.  “What you so mad about SammySam?” he said.  “I thought you were happy to see me.”

Dean’s smile.  Sam felt himself smiling back, in spite of himself, in spite of the tears he felt welling up again, smiling with his whole face.  _Dean._   Dean was _here,_ in front of him.  “I am,” he said, speaking with some difficulty.  Looked up at his brother.  His chest was tight.  “Dean,” he whispered.  He wasn’t smiling now.

Dean’s smile had faded too, replaced with an odd expression.  “You still mine, Sammy?” he asked softly.  Sam’s eyes widened.  He started to answer, but then saw their dad, coming up behind them, a supremely pissed off look on his face.  Sam stepped backwards, away from his brother.  He stared at their dad warily.

Their dad stomped past them.  “I thought I told you boys to _get in the car._   C’mon now.  Let’s go.”  He was in the driver’s seat, slamming the door.  Dean and Sam followed him promptly, Dean seating himself in the front passenger seat and Sam climbing into the back.  They drove off.

Their dad was driving a little faster than necessary.  “That fella was goin on and _on_ about you,” he grumbled to Dean.  “Seems you’re quite the star around that place.”

“Yeah, well, Sonny ‘n’ me got along,” Dean said. 

“He seemed to think it’d be a good thing if you stayed on with him,” their dad said.  “You have any opinions about that?”

Dean didn’t say anything. 

Sam was staring intently at the back of Dean’s head.  He picked up his model plane again, held it tightly in both hands.  Then Dean glanced back at him.  He met Sam’s eyes, winked. “Couldn’t wait to leave,” Dean said, looking at Sam.  Sam looked down.  Dean was smiling but he’d sounded sad.  They drove on, silently.

It was late. 

Sam had been sleeping, but woke up.  It was black dark outside the Impala’s windows, the empty highway before and behind them, a thin strip of asphalt in a looming dark forest.  The low murmur of voices in front of him.

“…Not too much further,” his dad was saying.  “We’re stayin at the hunting cabin of a friend of mine, Maurice, dunno whether you met him?”

“Don’t think so,” Dean said.  “He French?”

“French Canadian, his family that is.  He’s a New Hampshire boy.  His cabin’s an easy drive from the hunt site, so I thought we’d stay there.  It’s near a lake, decent fishin.  Thought you boys could have yourselves a summer vacation while I track this sucker down.”

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“Not sure,” their dad replied.  “What I do know is there’s been three bodies in the last three years, all with their eyes ‘n’ livers missin, all found within the same hundred miles.”

“Eyes ‘n’ livers?” Dean said.  “Gross.”

“Pretty gross,” their dad agreed.  “I’ll show you the pictures when we get to the cabin.  Maurice sent them to me.”

“He a hunter too?”

“Nah.  Works for the local force.  But he knew this was my kind of thing, so he sent them to me last year, after the last girl died.”

“So you were pickin me up specifically for this job?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because all three people disappeared from the exact same place,” his dad said.  “There’s this popular hikin trail through the back woods there, pretty heavily used this time of year, with this lookout point, helluva view apparently.  People stop, take pictures.  And everyone who turned up dead disappeared from that point, even though their bodies were found miles away.”

“Like they were snatched from there,” Dean said.

“That’s right,” their dad said.  “Abducted.  And their bodies were found, get this, exactly twenty five miles out from that point, east, west and south.”

“So we’re missin north,” Dean said.

“Yup,” his dad said.  “’N’ not only that, all three of those folks disappeared on the _same day_ …the day of the dark of the moon, in July.”

“In about a month you mean.”

“Yup.”

“Who were they?” Dean asked.  “The ones who disappeared.”

“A girl, first year,” their dad said.  “College girl.  Then a boy, the second year, early teens.  Girl again, seventeen years old, the third year.”  He was silent.

“…So you need me as bait,” Dean said.  His voice was dry.

“Yup,” their dad said.  Didn’t say anything more.

“Again,” Dean added.

“Uh huh,” their dad said.  “You made pretty decent bait, that last time.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. 

“Sure.”

“How far is the cabin from the hunt site?” Dean asked.

“About forty minutes’ drive,” their dad said.  “I made sure it was out of the kill zone.  Sammy’ll be okay.”

Sam was shaking, listening to this.  “But what about _Dean,_ dad?” he said.  “This sounds dangerous.”

Sam saw his dad’s eyes flick to him in the rearview mirror.  “I thought you were asleep,” he said, shortly.

“I woke up,” Sammy said.  “You were talkin.  Why does it have to be _Dean,_ dad?” he continued.  “It sounds real dangerous.  Why can’t you use someone else as bait?  What about Maurice?  (That bastard, getting them into this –he _deserved_ to be used as bait).

His dad laughed.  “We use Maurice, we’d end up havin _real_ bait on our hands,” he said.  “And somehow, I don’t think the thing would bite for him.  Whatever it is, it seems to like its victims young and pretty.”

“I still don’t see why it has to be Dean,” Sam said stubbornly.

His dad was getting irritated.  “Well no one _asked_ you,” he said.  “And Dean’s our best solution.  He ‘n’ I’ll scope out the hunt site beforehand Sammy, get a feel for this critter ‘n’ set a decent trap.  And Maurice is gonna help us, so there’ll be three of us, and we’ll all be armed.  And Dean knows how to handle himself.  He’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

“How can you just say that?” Sam said.  He was really upset now.  “You don’t know anythin about this thing, I heard you say so yourself.  So how can you just assume you’ll outsmart it?  And if it outsmarts _you_ …Dean’s dead.”

“Sammy…”

“Is it _worth it_ dad?” Sam asked him.  “Is catching this thing worth riskin Dean’s _life?”_

“That’s enough Sammy,” his dad said.  He was starting to sound angry.

Well _Sam_ was furious.  “No it isn’t,” he snapped.  “If this is what you picked Dean up for, you _should_ have left him back there.  What that man said was right.”

“Sammy,” his dad said warningly.  “What did I tell you about your attitude?  You’re makin me regret I didn’t leave you with Bobby.  `N’ don’t forget, I c’n put you on the next bus back to ‘im.”

“You might put me on that bus,” Sam hissed, “but who says I’ll end up at Bobby’s?”

Dean spoke up.  “Sammy.  Jesus.  And Dad.  C’n we stop this already?  I haven’t seen you guys for two months and you’re already fightin?  Sammy, never _never_ say stuff like that, okay?  And dad, that goes for you too.  C’mon.”

“I don’t want you to do it, Dean,” Sam said.

“But I want to,” Dean said.  “Look Sammy, three people have died.  And from the sound of it, this is our best chance of catching whatever it is that’s killin them.  And I c’n handle myself, like dad said.  I have before, it’s nothin new.  And I’ve got dad to back me up.  You think he’s gonna let anythin happen to me?  He's not gonna take undue risks, Sammy.  Right dad?”

“You bet.”

“Promise me,” Sam said.  “Promise me you won’t do this unless you’re hundred percent sure this thing won’t get the drop on you.”

“Nothin’s a hundred percent,” said Dean.  “But I promise you Sammy, I won’t do anythin stupid.  I’m not puttin myself out there lightly.  Okay?”

“No,” Sam said.  “It’s not okay.  I don’t want you puttin yourself out there at all!”

“That’s enough, Sammy!” their dad exploded.  “Dean’s doin what he’s good at ‘n’ there’s no one else as good as him to do it.  ‘N’ we gotta a chance to catch ‘n’ kill this thing _now_.  ‘N’ Dean’s right.  Nothin is a hundred percent, but if I thought there was goin to be undue risk to your brother, I wouldn’t ask this of him.  So I don’t want to hear any more out of you!  You seem to have forgotten our agreement.”

“What agreement?” Dean asked.

“Never mind,” their dad said.  “I thought that Sammy and I had a meetin of minds that’s all, finally, while you were gone.  I guess I was mistaken.”  His eyes met Sam’s in the rearview mirror again. 

“Please don’t do it, Dean,” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “Sammy, it’ll be okay.  I promise.”

“But-“ Sam started.

“Sammy!” Dean’s voice was cold.  “I’m with dad, here.  That’s enough outa you.  I already told you I wanted to do this.  Dad ‘n’ I _work_ together, got that?  He needs me for this and he’s not gonna put me in any danger I c’nt handle.  So drop it.”

Sam glared at him frustrated.  “Fine,” he grumbled.  He saw Dean and their dad exchange a glance.  They looked relieved he’d given in, Sam saw.  Little Sammy, put back in his place.  Assholes.  “But I’m comin too,” Sam said.  “When this thing goes down.”

 _"No!”_ Two loud, deep voices, from the front seat.  Dean turned around and glared at him.  “You are _not,”_ he bit out.  “You’re stayin at the cabin Sammy, where it’s safe.”

“No I’m not,” Sam said.  “If you’re gonna be there as bait, I’m gonna be there too.  As your cover.  I’m as good a shot as you ‘n’ dad.  Maybe better.  You should have a fourth gun.”

“Forget it Sammy,” Dean said.  “That’s not happenin.”

“He _is_ a pretty good shot,” their dad said thoughtfully.

Dean turned on him.  “Dad!”

Their dad sighed.  “Jesus, you boys.  Okay look.  I’ve been drivin twenty four hours and I’m damn tired.  ‘N’ I have to meet Maurice tomorrow, he called me a couple of days ago and said it was urgent, that I get here by the twenty-first.  Just realized somethin about that date apparently, related to the case.  So lemme just get to our destination so we can all get some shuteye.  We can talk about the plan later.  Sort it out.  Okay?”

Dean was silent.  Then shrugged.  “Sure dad,” he said.  Paused.  Then asked, in a different voice, “Say… you want me to drive?”

“What?”

“I _can_ drive, you know,” Dean said.  “You know that practicin we were doin, earlier this year?  Well I got my license finally.  When I was at…a couple weeks ago, I mean.” 

His dad was quiet.  Then laughed.  “Well I’ll be damned.  Sure son, you c’n drive.  Don’t know why I didn’t think of that earlier.  Just be careful with her, okay?”

“You _know_ I’ll be careful with her,” Dean answered.  Their dad nodded, pulled over. 

Dean and their dad were out of the car, stretching.  Sam stayed where he was.  Then their dad opened the back door, leaned his head in.  “Sammy, why don’t you sit up front.  I want to lie down for a bit.”

Sam wasn’t saying no to that.  He scrambled out of the back and slid into the front passenger seat.  It was warm with the heat of Dean’s body.  Sam pressed himself into the warm seat, relishing it.

Dean was behind the wheel.  He was grinning.  His dad watched him from the backseat.  He hadn’t lain down, yet.  “Be careful with the clutch,” he said.  “It’s a little sticky until you get used to it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean wasn’t listening.

“And you gotta-“

“Dad, Jesus.  I got this, okay?”

His dad sighed.  But he was smiling, Sam saw.  “Okay, okay.  Take her away, son.”

Dean pulled off the shoulder, accelerating through the gears.  They were on their way again, a smooth rumble down the empty dark highway.  Dean glanced briefly at Sam.  “Seatbelt, Sammy.”  Sam did up his seatbelt obediently.  He watched Dean, fascinated.  His brother was driving with a relaxed grace, on his face an expression of concentrated joy.

Their dad lay down.  “Wake me up around Laconia,” he said.  “The cabin’s about thirty miles from there.”

“Sure dad.”

“And don’t speed.  Too much.”

“Sure dad.”

Their dad grunted.  Then was silent.  Eventually started to snore.

Dean, driving through the dark night.  Sam watched his brother silently.

“What you lookin at Sammy?” Dean’s eyes were on the road.

“You.”

“Yeah, got that.”  Dean’s voice was dry.  “How come?”

“I can’t stop,” Sam said simply.

Dean glanced at him.  Sam was somewhat taken aback by the expression in his eyes. An assessing glance, with little warmth.  He didn’t say anything.  Looked back at the road.

Sam swallowed.  Dean driving on, through the night.  Towards their destination, towards the hunt.  Approaching the time of the hunt. 

Bait for the monster.  Three people dead.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t do it,” Sam whispered.  “You don’t have to.  Just tell dad no.”

Dean’s expression hardened.  “I already asked you to drop it Sammy.  I’m not askin again.”

Sam was furious, suddenly.  “Why are you so fuckin _not listenin to me?”_ he snapped.

“`N’ why are you so fuckin _bitchin_ at me?” Dean snapped back.

 _“Because I’m mad at you!”_ Sam yelled.

Their dad’s snores stopped.   “Dean?”

Dean raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.   “It’s nothin dad.  Sammy ‘n’ me were just talkin.  Sorry we woke you up.”

“Uh huh.  Try to keep it down boys, okay?”  Their dad’s voice a rough mumble.

“Sorry dad.”

“Sorry dad.”

“Mmph.”  Their dad, shifting his body around.  Soon the snores, rising again.

“I’m real mad at you, Dean,” Sam hissed.

“Uh huh.”  Dean didn’t sound impressed.

“I don’t understand why you disappeared,” Sam said.  “You just fuckin… _disappeared_ and left me!  What was so important that it took you away for _two whole months?_ And why didn’t you call me _once?_ And what kind of stupid hunt was it anyway, that you end up gettin your driver’s license ‘n’ going out _on a date_ while you’re at it?  That makes no kind of sense at all.  You think I’m stupid?”

“Just because I was on a…hunt, doesn’t mean I can’t go out on a date.”  Dean sounded defensive.  “I mean…Dad does.”

“You call those dates?” Sam asked scornfully.  “Is _that_ what you were doin?  Dean?” 

“No,” Dean said. 

“Then what were you _doin?”_

“Nothin.”

“Right.”

“I mean it Sammy, that had…nothin to do with you.  Honest.”

Sam was boiling now.  “I want to know what you were _doin,_ for over two months!”

“Stop _askin_ me Sammy.  I told you, I can’t talk about it.”  Dean sounded truly harassed now.   “Please…just drop it, okay?”

Sam glared at him.  Then sighed.  He couldn’t punch Dean.  Not while he was driving.

But this wasn’t the end of it.  Oh no. 

“Okay…so…if I drop it…then tell me something else.”  He waited.

Dean looked at him warily.  “What?”

“Why is it so important to you to go along with dad’s stupid plan?” Sam snapped.  “What’s the _matter_ with you, Dean?  You just…go _along_ with this?  Puttin yourself out there…riskin your life...just cause he _tells_ you to?  Don’t you _ever_ think for _yourself?”_

Dean was furious now, Sam saw.  He stared straight ahead, his mouth set in a thin line.  “Just _bitchin_ away at me…” he said under his breath.  Then louder, “Why Sammy?  Why’re you _doin_ this?”

Sam leaned forward.  He wanted Dean to hear him, over the rumble of their dad’s snores.  “Because.  You’re.  A.   _Jerk!”_  he said, enunciating each word.  “That’s why!  A goddamn _jerk,_ who left me stranded, didn’t call, didn’t do _anythin_ …and now you won’t even answer my questions!”  His voice was rising again.  He stopped, breathing hard.  Waited for Dean to say something. 

Dean didn’t say anything.  Fine.  Sam would keep asking.

“Why’s _that_ , Dean?”  Sam asked him. 

Dean was silent.

“Dean!”

“What.”

“Whaddaya _mean,_ what!” Sammy asked scathingly.  “Why’re you bein such a _jerk?”_

Silence.

_“Dean!”_

Dean’s hands were clenched around the steering wheel.  “I feel like stoppin the car right now and smacking you one,” he muttered.

Sam snorted.  “Yeah, I guess that’s what a jerk would do, alright,” he said. 

Dean was shaking his head, smiling tightly.  “You’re such a little bitch, Sammy,” he said.  “I’ve been missin you like hell these last weeks, worryin…and this…this is what I get.”

Sam wasn’t taking any of that.  Dean was _not_ going to change the subject here.  _“Why aren’t you answerin me?”_ he hissed. 

Dean stared at the road, his jaw clenched.  He didn’t respond for a moment.

Then said, “All those questions, Sammy, and you never answered mine.”

“Never answered what?” Sam responded shortly.

“The question I asked you,” Dean said.  “At the farm.  Just before dad came back out.”  He glanced at Sam briefly.

_(You still mine, Sammy?)_

Sam’s breath caught.  He couldn’t speak for a moment.  Then said, “What does that have to do with anythin?”

“Because that answers _all_ your questions,” Dean said.  His voice was mild.  “That’s all the answer you’re gonna need.”

Sam was staring at him.

Dean’s voice.  “So what is it?”

Sam, staring at him. 

“What’s your _answer,_ Sammy?”  Dean whispered.  He glanced at Sam again.

Sam shivered, suddenly.  He was silent.

“Sammy _,”_ Dean said _._   “Your answer.”

Sam was silent.

 _“Your answer, Sammy.”_  Dean, his voice.

“Yes,” Sam whispered.

He stared at Dean helplessly.

Dean looked at him.  Smiled.  Then he turned his eyes back to the road.  “And there’s your answer to everythin else,” he said.

“What do you _mean?”_   Sam asked.  His body was cold, shivering. 

Dean gazed calmly into the night, the miles of black highway beyond the white glare of the Impala’s headlights, the dark forest around them. 

“You’ll see,” he said.


	17. Chapter 17

Dean was climbing back up to the cabin after a morning hike to the lake. 

This was a great place.  Clean, quiet woods, the clear water of the lake, a few minutes’ walk away down a forest path.  The lake sparsely inhabited too, the shoreline mostly empty.  Dean could see a few cottages across the water, but mostly just the thick pine forest, the narrow, rocky beach.  There was a weatherworn wooden shed at the foot of the path where it opened onto the beach, padlocked.  Dean figured it must belong to Maurice.  He examined the lock cursorily, but didn’t have his picks with him.  Walked down the beach for a little bit, hopping over the granite rocks on the shoreline.

The silence of a summer morning, the mist rising off the water.

Dean could get used to this.

He stripped down, jumped into the cool water, leaving his clothes on a rock.  Swam out, the clear dark water like silk around him, the pale blue sky above.  Looked back at the shoreline, saw the dark opening of the forest path he’d just left.  His dad had said the lake was in a state park, no one allowed to build anymore, just a few older hunting cabins and cottages belonging to the original families, grandfathered from before the land was declared.  When he looked back at the shore Dean saw one other cottage, a little distance away from the path, and then nothing but an unbroken line of trees.

Awesome.

He and Sammy would have a great time here.  He’d take Sammy swimming, later.  And maybe there was a boat in that shed, a canoe or something. 

Dean swam until he became a little tired, then headed back in.  Pulled his clothes on over his wet body and jogged up the path.

The cabin, surrounded closely by the tall pines, the Impala parked out front.  Dean smiled.  He’d had a great time, driving her last night.  Had driven her right up to the cabin, his dad giving him directions from from the backseat, Sammy sitting shotgun beside him.  He could see his dad liked the idea of Dean driving, another driver in the family finally.  Giving his dad a break from those long miles.  And Sammy’s admiring eyes.  That had been pretty great too.

His dad would be heading out today, meeting up with Maurice.  Leaving Sammy and Dean at the cabin to settle in.  Dean was looking forward to the time alone with his brother, the two of them able to talk finally, to heal over the terrible way they had parted, earlier that spring.  And to see about being together again now, how that would look now, going forward.  To make their way into this new territory that had apparently opened up for both of them.  Dean thought about this, aware of a tight, low anticipation, thrumming.  Sammy.

He let himself into the cabin.  His dad was still sleeping quietly on the couch and there was no sound from the bedroom, where he and Sammy had crashed.  Sammy must be sleeping too (both his dad and brother dead tired, after that marathon drive).

Dean walked over to the bedroom, looked in.  Sammy lying motionless on the bed, a tangled lump, wrapped tight in the covers like always, a tousle of silky brown hair just visible.  Dean watched him quietly.  Those weeks, apart from his brother, the first in his memory.  It had been hard.  But then, not so hard. 

Going to class, working around the farm, sitting at Sonny’s kitchen table with Sonny and the other boys, going to wrestling practice, driving along the back country roads in Sonny’s truck, with just himself to worry about for once, no younger brother to look out for, no dad to worry about (the dreams, the booze, Sammy and his dad fighting), it had been…kind of relaxing, actually.  And then Robin.  His…girlfriend, or at least on the way to being one.  Robin had been the first person Dean had allowed himself to get close to, other than…ever, he guessed, other than Sammy and his dad (and Bobby).  And Sonny, he’d let Sonny in a little bit, too.

Dean closed his eyes briefly.  He felt bad about Robin.  And he hadn’t even spoken with her personally, she hadn’t answered when he’d called, still getting ready for the dance.  Her mother had offered to fetch her but Dean had refused, just leaving a message for her, like a freakin coward.  Couldn’t bring himself to speak with Robin anymore, not with the vision of Sammy in front of him, his brother, so close, waiting for Dean just outside.

Couldn’t bear to hear Robin’s voice, the sound of his own voice, letting her down (and with Sammy, Sammy’s voice in his ears, Sammy’s voice in his mind, like a dark bell).  Impossible, to have both Robin and Sammy in his mind at the same time.  No matter what Dean did, to cause a betrayal of trust.

So Dean, not speaking to her.  It was over, anyway.  Better to leave in silence. 

But he still felt bad about that.

But now with his family back, his dad and his brother returned to him, the presence of his dad and Sammy closing over Dean’s head like water.

Dean underwater, again.

He’d been outside the last few weeks, walking in the open air, breathing it in, the bright clear air of the world. 

But now, submerged once more in this environment he knew so well, the presence of his family like the living waters of an ocean, surrounding him, carrying him.  Swimming in familiar waters like a fish in the sea, born to this, this water that others would drown in.  

The air of the world only a memory now, and fading.  Alien to him, again.

But Sammy, Sammy with Dean again, finally. 

Sammy in Dean’s arms, the press of Sammy’s body against him, the tickle of Sammy’s hair, the light, sharp smell of Sammy that Dean would know anywhere.

Dean, submerged beneath the presence of Sammy, with everything else just a memory.

Dean turned away from the bedroom, closing the door.

He walked over to the fridge, opened it, peering inside.  He and his dad had unloaded the car last night, storing the few supplies his dad had brought with them.  His dad would be shopping today, Dean guessed.  Dean would write out a list for him (if their dad shopped without written instructions from his sons, they tended to be unhappy with the results).

Dean grabbed a slice of bread from the loaf in the fridge, tore off a hunk of cheese from the lump of cheddar in plastic wrap and wrapped the bread around it.  Then squirted some ketchup on top of the bread (his family never travelled without ketchup in their cooler, that and water and beer), and held the sandwich in his hand, chewing absently.  Found a pad of paper and a pencil and wrote out the grocery list. 

His dad, stirring on the couch.  Sitting up.  “Dean, c’n you put coffee on?”

“Sure.  How’s the water, here?”

“Dunno, but it’ll be okay if you boil it.  I’ll check with Maurice when I see him, if we c’n drink out of the tap.”

Dean located a dented kettle, filled it from the tap, and put the kettle on the ancient stove.  Turned on a burner.  “Did you bring coffee with you?”

“Nah, but there should be some around.” 

Dean opened cupboards, reviewing their contents.  Found a tin of Folgers, a quarter full.  “Not much left.”

“I’ll pick more up in town.  You makin me a list?”

“Yeah.”

His dad grunted.  Then stood up, stretched, rubbing his neck.  Observed Dean’s wet hair.  “You shower already?”

“No, went down to the lake.”

“How is it?”

“Awesome.  Sammy’ll love it.  I’ll take him down, later.”

“Uh huh.”  His dad, bending over his duffel bag, retrieving his shaving kit.  “I’m washin up.  I’ll have my coffee after I finish, c’n you keep it hot?” (His dad liked his coffee scalding hot and black, just like Dean did). 

“Sure.”

“’N’ see what you c’n rustle up for breakfast.  I forgot to pick up milk yesterday.”

“Okay.”

His dad made his way to the cabin’s tiny bathroom.  The sound of the shower running.

Dean found an old cast iron frying pan, a bit rusty, and put it on the stove.  The kettle was boiling.  He retrieved a couple of mugs from the cupboard, along with a single cup coffee filter and a set of paper sleeves.  Poured out a mug of coffee for himself.  Then put the kettle back on a low boil, and set the coffee filter up on top of the other mug for his dad, to pour out as soon as his dad was done with his shower.

Looked in the fridge.  The bread, the cheese, a tub of margarine (not theirs).  Dean pulled out the food, looked at the margarine, sniffed it.  Seemed okay.  He greased the pan with it.  Then sliced the cheese.  He’d make grilled cheese sandwiches for everybody.  Sammy loved those.

The greasy bread and cheese, sizzling in the pan.  Sammy was standing in the bedroom doorway, yawning.

Dean looked at him, his brother in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a raggedy old t-shirt (Dean’s). 

“You’ve grown,” Dean said.

“I have?”  Sammy came over to him.

“Yeah.”  Dean reached out and tousled Sammy’s mop of hair.  Sammy jerked his head away.  “Don’t,” he grumped.

Dean smiled.  Then looked at Sammy more closely.  “And you’ve lost weight, Sammity-Sam.  Wasn’t Bobby feedin you?”

“Yeah, he was,” Sammy said.  He shrugged.

“Hold out your arm,” Dean said.

Sammy stretched out an arm obediently.  Dean felt it, Sammy’s arm, hard with muscle, but lean.  Too lean.  Skinny.  The smooth skin, under his fingers.

“You haven’t been eatin enough,” Dean said.  “Growin and not eatin.  We’ll have to feed you up.”

Sammy smiled at this.  “Okay,” he said.  Dean smiled back at him.

Their dad, in the room.  “Smells good,” he said.  He sat down at the table.  Sammy sat down too.

Dean flipped the finished sandwiches onto plates and brought them over.  Put the ketchup on the table (both Sammy and their dad reaching for it, Sammy getting to it first).  Poured out the mug of coffee for his dad, scalding hot like promised.  Put the mug on the table.

Sammy chewing.  “C’n I have some milk, Dean?”

“Don’t have any, dad’s buyin some today.  You c’n have water.”  Dean got Sammy a bottle of water from the fridge.  Then poured out another coffee for himself.  Sat down.

The three of them, chewing. 

Their dad.  “That was good.  Thanks son.”

“Sure.”

“Maurice said he had a rowboat,” their dad said.  “You see it, when you were down there?”

“Nah, but there was a shed, padlocked,” Dean replied.  “It’s probably in there.”

Their dad grunted.  “Key’s with the others, likely.  I’ll check.”

“I c’n pick it,” Dean offered.  Their dad laughed.  “That’d be rude.  But we’ll see.”  The keys Maurice had left for them last night were on the table.  Their dad picked them up.  “Yeah, here’s a padlock key,” he said.  “Labelled ‘shed.’  This must be it.”  He looked at Sammy.  “Sammy, your brother ‘n’ me have some catchin up to do.  Why don’t you go down to the lake ‘n’ check it out.  Take the rowboat out for a spin.”

Sammy looked at him.  “Can’t I go down with Dean, later?” he asked.

“No,” their dad said.  “I’d like you to go now, while Dean and I have a word.  And I’d like you to take a little row around the lake, get a sense of our neighbours.  C’n you do that, for me?”

Sammy didn’t look enthusiastic.  “I guess.”

“I was kind of wanting to go with him, dad,” Dean said.  “Rather than him going out on his own.”

“Sammy c’n swim like a trout,” his dad said.  “And he c’n handle a boat.  He’ll be fine.  You wash up the dishes, Sammy, then go, okay?”

Sammy sighed.  “Sure.”  He stood up, cleared the plates.  Started washing the dishes at the sink.

“Pour me another, Dean,” their dad said.  Dean stood, picked up his dad’s empty coffee mug.  Put the kettle back on and stood at the stove, waiting for the water to boil.  Poured out another coffee and brought the mug over to his dad.  His dad picked it up, sipped appreciatively.  “Thanks son.”

“Sure.”  Dean sat down again. 

Sammy was in the bathroom.  Dean could hear water running.  Then his brother entering the bedroom, closing the door.  Coming out, wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  Sammy picked up the set of keys and removed the padlock key, putting it in his pocket.  Slipped on his sneakers.  “I’ll be back in awhile,” he said.

Dean stood up.  “Bring a bottle of water with you,” he said.  Retrieved another bottle from the fridge and handed it to Sammy.  “`N’ be careful, okay?  Just stay in the boat.  You ‘n’ me can go swimming later.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Sammy said.

“And be careful,” Dean said, again.

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “Okay, Dean.  Jesus.”  He left.

Dean and his dad at the table.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Dean asked.  “The case?”

His dad sipped his coffee.  “We c’n talk about that later,” he said.  “After I’ve seen Maurice.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “So what, then?  Is it Sammy?  How’s he been?”

“Sammy’s been fine,” his dad said.  “I’ve been trainin him pretty hard and he did okay with it.  He’s been pretty good overall, I’d say, other than his mouth, last night.”  He was quiet.

Dean looked at his dad, waiting.

His dad sipped his coffee.  Then met Dean’s eyes.  “We’ve got a reckoning,” he said softly.  “You ‘n’ me.”

Dean swallowed.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean,” his dad said.  “The punishment you have comin to you, for exposin us like a damn fool, puttin your family at risk.”

“You separated me ‘n’ Sammy,” Dean said.  “Left me at Sonny’s for weeks without a word, wonderin if you’d ever show up.  I thought _that_ was the punishment.”

His dad shook his head.  “That separation wasn’t punishment,” he said.  “I was concerned about Sammy, wanted to see how he’d do without you hoverin over him all the time like a mother hen.  And he did fine.  Better than I expected actually.  And the kid’s got some decent skills.  You did a good job there, I’ll give you that.”  His dad paused. 

Then continued.  “But that doesn’t change our reckoning.”  He looked at Dean, again.  “Before we’re doin anything else, you’re gettin a beatin.”

Dean felt himself shaking.  But he wasn’t going to show it.  “Let’s get it over with, then,” he said briefly.  His dad nodded.  They both stood up.

“Where do you want me?” Dean asked.

“Table’ll do,” his dad replied.  “Clear it off.”

Dean picked up the coffee mugs and the set of keys.  Put them on the kitchen counter and came back.  His dad was standing, waiting.

Dean bent himself over the table, resting his cheek on it.  “Pants off,” his dad said.  “Shorts too.”  Dean could hear him undoing his belt.

Dean undid his jeans and pulled them and his undershorts down, letting the clothing puddle around his ankles.  He placed his hands flat on the table’s surface, bracing himself.

Heard his dad’s steps behind him.  “This is gonna be a hard one,” his dad said.  “You ready?”

“Yes sir,” Dean said quietly.  He closed his eyes. 

His dad’s belt descended, striking him very hard.

He hadn’t been kidding.

Dean was flinching, gasping under each blow, in spite of himself.

His dad was hitting him hard, really hard, using the full strength of his arm, his doubled up belt hitting Dean’s butt with a brutal slashing force.  

It went on and on.

Dean was in tears now, biting back his sobs, trying to be silent.

Finally, it was over.  “You c’n get up son.”  His dad putting his belt back on, the buckle clinking.

Dean straightened himself up painfully.  His butt was on fire, throbbing.  Tears were running down his face.  He pulled his shorts and jeans back up, being careful of his raw skin.  Wiped a hand over his eyes. Then turned to face his dad.

His dad nodded towards a corner of the room.  “You c’n go stand there for a bit,” he said.  “Think about what just happened ‘n’ why.  Think about what you’re goin to say to me, by way of makin things right.”

Dean looked at him.  Then shook his head.  “No,” he said.

His dad’s eyes widened.  “What?”

“No,” Dean said again.  “I’m not standin there dad, like some kid.  Not anymore.”

His dad looked at him.  Dean could see his temper rising, his dad’s face going pale.

“I took the beatin,” Dean said.  “I understand I had it coming.  And to make things right between us, I took that from you.  But that’s it dad, not ever again.”

His dad’s eyes were narrow.  “You’ll take whatever I see fit,” he said.  “You do somethin foolish like that again, exposin your family, you’re gonna get punished.  End of story.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I won’t.  First off, I’m never goin to do to anythin like that again.  That was a one-time thing.  But secondly, you don’t get to make that call for me anymore dad, what I do and don’t do.  That’s up to me now.”

His dad looked at him.

“Sammy wasn’t the only one who was okay on his own,” Dean said softly.  “I was okay too.  Dad.  Better than okay.  I was doin real good.”

“So you preferred bein away from your family, is that it?” his dad asked him.

“No,” Dean said.  “I didn’t say that.  I said that I was doin okay.  I _chose_ to come back, dad, but I didn’t need to.  Not for me.”

His dad, looking at him.  Dean stared back, silently.  Then he saw his dad sigh.  “So what now?” he asked.  His voice was resigned.  He’d put his hands in his pockets.

Dean let out a breath.  “So now you stop treatin me like a kid,” he said.  “Stop orderin me around, thinkin you can punish me whenever you want.  You raised me to be your hunting partner, dad, so now you _accept me_ as your partner.  An equal partner, with my own say.  I know how to handle myself and I will, I promise.  And if you expect me to risk my life, I do that on my own terms.”

His dad looked at him.  He was smiling slightly, Dean saw.  “Okay son,” his dad said.  “I c’n do that.  You’re ready to be grown, I’ll treat you like you’re grown.  I have no problems with that.”

Dean didn’t smile back.  “And I want my privacy,” he said.  “I’ve grown up sharing the same room with you, dad, and it’s enough, already, what with all your _(dreaming)_ snorin and drinkin.  I’ll get work, wherever we go, to help with our expenses.  Bobby’s shown me a thing or two about cars and I bet I could get a mechanic’s gig anywhere.  So I want a room of my own.  And I’ll be payin for it.”

His dad, smiling.  “Was my snorin botherin you, Dean?” he asked.

Dean snorted.  “You have no idea,” he said.

His dad nodded.  “That seems reasonable.  And forget the lousy mechanic’s job.  You c’n hustle pool with the best of ‘em.  We c’n do that, together, for the livin expenses.”

Dean nodded.  “Sure, we can do that too,” he said.  “But I like workin as a mechanic.  I’m good at it, Bobby said so.  So I want to keep my hand in, anyway.”

His dad shrugged.  “Fine with me, if that’s so important to you.  You c’n work the occasional job if it doesn’t interfere with the hunt, or with you finishin your school.  I still want you to graduate, you know.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Fine.  I promised Sammy I’d study.  I’ll keep on doin that.”

His dad wasn’t smiling now.  “About Sammy,” he said.  “He’s not goin to like you gettin your own room.  But I guess he’ll get used to it.  He’ll understand you want some privacy, now that you’re older.”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “When I said privacy, I meant for Sammy too, dad.  He’s comin with me.”

His dad frowned.  He shook his head.  “I don’t think so son.  I wanted Sammy to get more independent from you, remember?  I think it’s better that he shares with me, for a little while longer at least.”

“No,” Dean said.  “And that’s the other thing, dad, that’s never happenin again around here.  You’re not separatin Sammy and me again.  Not ever.  And there’s gonna be no more talk about sendin Sammy anywhere on a bus, or leavin him behind with Bobby.  Sammy stays with me, and that’s it.”

His dad, frowning.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dean,” his dad said.  “Sammy needs to grow up too.  He’s too attached to you.  And he was actually actin pretty reasonable with me, while you were gone.  I think it’s good for him, you boys bein apart more.  We should keep that goin, I think.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I’m not agreeing to that.”

His dad looked at him.

“You gave me Sammy to raise,” Dean said.  “Don’t pretend you didn’t.  And I’ve looked after him, dad, since I was five years old.  _I’m_ the reason our family’s stayed together, otherwise Sammy’d be with the state, by now.  So don’t kid yourself that you’re gonna take him over, just cause you’ve decided you want to.  That’s not gonna work.”

His dad’s jaw was set.  But he was quiet.  Eventually responded. “What are you sayin?”

“I’m sayin I’m gonna finish the job you gave me to do,” Dean answered.  “ _I’m_ raising Sammy, not you.  And you’re not gonna separate us again.”

His dad looked serious.  “I think you’re making a mistake, Dean,” he said.  “Takin this position.  Sammy’s too attached to you.  It’s not healthy.  And you don’t seem to see it.”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “I’ve been the only thing in Sammy’s life he could count on as a sure thing, until _you_ decided I was gonna disappear on him, that is.  And if that’s made him too attached to me, well that’s my responsibility and I’ll deal with it.  Not you.”  He held his dad’s gaze, quietly.

His dad looked at him then looked away.  Both Dean and he were silent.  Then his dad said, “I gotta say, I’m concerned about you too, Dean.  You want me to treat you like you’re grown.  Fine.  I’ll do it.  With what I’m askin of you now, it’s time, I agree with that.  But you gotta let me say this, as your dad.  You’re too attached to Sammy too.  Wantin him with you all the time, takin so much responsibility for him, that’s not healthy for you either, Dean.  You gotta see that.”

“I’ve looked after him- “ Dean began-

“  -Since you were five years old,” his dad said.  “I know. I heard you, the first time.  But have you maybe thought that Sammy doesn’t need so much lookin after, anymore?  He’s thirteen now, Dean, and he’s a bright kid.  And he’s just as independent minded as you were, at that age.  More maybe.  And at some point, he might not be on the same page as you.  Him and you might disagree and he’ll go his own way.  God knows I’ve seen that about him.  And you need to be prepared for that.”

“I’m prepared for whatever’s comin,” Dean said.  His voice was dismissive (his dad, thinking he could talk to _Dean_ about Sammy.  Like his dad put up such a great example).

His dad was watching him.  “Are you, son?” he said.  “I don’t know about that.”

Dean set his jaw.  “Sammy stays with me,” he said again.  “You made me responsible for him and you can’t take that away now.  I won’t let you.  You understand me, dad?”

His dad sighed.  “I understand your thinkin," he said.  "You’ve looked after Sammy like you said, Dean, and I owe you for that, I know.  And our family stayin together has been just as important to me as it is to you, I think I’ve shown that.  You think it’s been easy for _me,_ draggin you boys across the country?”

Dean nodded in acknowledgement.  He understood this, sure.  But his dad and him weren’t finished yet.  They had to get something clear, here.  “You made a mistake dad, separating Sammy and me like you did,” Dean said to him.  “It wasn’t necessary and you shouldn’t’ve done it.  And you’re not doin it again.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” his dad replied.  “I think it was good for Sammy _and_ you to have some time apart, and I don’t regret that decision.” 

Dean watched him, feeling a cold expression settle over his face.  He could walk out of here. Take Sammy and go, just like Sammy had asked of him, before.  Did his dad not understand this?  Did Dean have to say it?

“But I’m not gonna do it again,” his dad said.  

Dean looked at him.  He wasn’t relaxing, yet.  He continued to watch his dad, closely.

His dad was quiet.  Then said, “You’re takin on the responsibilities of a man…for yourself and your brother both, Dean…is that what I’m hearin?”  

“That’s what you’re hearin,” Dean said.  “And it’s not like I didn’t have them before, either.  But now it’s been said.  And we’re both hearin it.”

“And you’ve made up your mind that’s the way it’s goin to be,” his dad said. 

“Yes,” Dean replied, briefly.

His dad sighed again.  He looked tired, suddenly, older.  Said, “I’m not perfect, Dean, I recognize that.  I’ve made mistakes, with Sammy and you, I know.  But I’m tryin to do the right thing, here, for all of us.  I see your point of view about Sammy, I do.  But I feel like I’m makin another mistake, goin along with it.  I gotta say that.” 

Dean watched him.  His dad could say whatever he wanted, but that wouldn’t change anything.  Not about this.

His dad was staring back, looking at Dean carefully.  Then he shrugged.  Looked away.  Dean could see his dad was tired of this conversation, his mind moving on to other things.  “I’ve had my say, Dean and you’ve had yours.  I don’t agree with you about Sammy, but you _are_ my hunting partner, we both understand that, I guess.  And the hunt’s what we have to focus on now.  So we’ll leave the rest for the time bein, okay?  See how things roll out.”

Dean nodded, silently.  His dad was giving in.  He might not admit it, but that’s what was happening.  Dean felt triumph, rising inside him.  He kept it out of his expression.

“I’m headin into town,” his dad continued.  “Meet up with Maurice and see what’s so all fired important about us bein here for the twenty-first.  And I’ll pick up some more food.  You got that list?”  Dean picked up the grocery list from the counter, handed it to him.  His dad took it.  “Thanks.”

Dean nodded, still without speaking.

His dad looked at him, started to say something, then stopped.  He shrugged again.  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said.  “Might be late, depends on what Maurice has to say.  You boys’ll be okay here?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  “Why wouldn’t we be?” He smiled slightly.  “This is place is great, dad.  I’m glad we came here.  It was a good idea, you had.”

His dad smiled back.  Dean felt his stomach hurt suddenly, at the expression in his dad’s eyes.  “I’m glad you like it son,” his dad said quietly. “I was hopin we could have a nice time here, aside from the hunt.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Me too.”

His dad nodded.  He left.

Dean stood silently in the empty room, listening to the Impala rumble away.  He was in real pain, his butt throbbing, swollen.  That had been the hardest his dad had ever hit him, in his life.  He turned and made his way stiffly towards the bedroom, and lay down carefully, face down on the bed. 

He’d wanted to go swimming with Sammy, but that wasn’t happening today.  He closed his eyes.

“Dean?”  Sammy’s voice.  “Dean, you there?”

Dean awoke from a light doze.  “In here, Sammy.”

Sammy, entering the bedroom.  “What’re you doin, Dean?  You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Dean said.  He turned his face towards Sammy, smiled at him.

Sammy was standing beside the bed, staring down at him, his eyes concerned.  Then suddenly they widened, then filled with rage.  “Dad beat you.  Didn’t he?”

Dean closed his eyes.  “Yeah.”

 _“I’ll kill him,”_ Sammy said.  “Tonight.  I will kill that fucking bastard.”

Dean opened his eyes.  “No you won’t,” he said.  “Don’t you ever say anything like that Sammy, not ever again, understand?”

Tears were in Sammy’s eyes.  “I hate him,” he whispered.

Dean looked at him.  Then he reached out, put a hand on Sammy’s arm.  “C’mere,” he said.  “Lie down with me.”

Sammy blinked.  Then he lay himself down on the bed beside Dean, arranging his body against Dean’s carefully.  He put an arm lightly over Dean’s waist.  “That okay?”

Dean was smiling.  “Yeah, that’s okay.”  He put an arm around Sammy’s shoulders, put his face against Sammy’s hair.  That silky hair, that Sammy smell, Sammy’s warm, sweat damp skin.  “I missed you Sammysam,” Dean whispered.

Sammy was crying.  “I missed you too,” he said.  “Dean.”

“I’m sorry I left you the way I did,” Dean said.  “It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

Sammy crying.  “I’m sorry I said all those things to you Dean.  I’m sorry I was mad.  Was it the things I said, that made you go away?”

“No,” Dean said.  “Nothing you could ever say or do could ever make me go away, Sammy.  Nothing.  That was somethin beyond my control.  I would never leave you on purpose.”

Sammy was crying.  He pressed his face close, his tears leaking onto Dean’s neck.  “I wanted to die,” he whispered.  “When you didn’t come back.”

Dean’s face twisted.  “I’m sorry,” he said into Sammy’s hair.  “I’m sorry you felt that way, Sammy.”  His lips against Sammy’s hair.

Sammy looked up.  His face before Dean’s, on the pillow.  The hazel eyes, so close, gazing at Dean, the long lashes blinking away tears.  Sammy raised his mouth.  _“Dean,”_ he whispered. 

He put his lips against Dean’s mouth.

Dean felt his own mouth softening, opening.  He turned onto his side, ignoring the pain in his butt.  Put his arms around Sammy.  He felt himself shaking, his arms shaking. 

But he was kissing Sammy, Sammy’s mouth again.  And it was just like before, the fire blazing up between them.  Dean’s hands were on the sides of Sammy’s face, holding him tightly.  He was feeding on Sammy’s mouth, his tongue in Sammy’s mouth.

Sammy was kissing him back, nuzzling, his lips soft and hungry against Dean’s.  One of his arms was curled around Dean’s back, the other trapped between their bodies.  Dean felt Sammy’s hand brush his cock, which was excruciatingly, achingly hard.  He thrust his cock against Sammy’s hand without thinking.  Felt Sammy turn his palm around, cupping him.  Sammy was gasping, his breath ragged under Dean's mouth.

Dean thrust himself against Sammy’s palm, again.  Then he was on top of Sammy, pressing him down into the bed, his cock against Sammy’s groin.  Felt the hard bulge of his brother’s cock, rubbing against him.  Sammy had wrapped his arms and legs around him, clinging tightly.  He arched himself against Dean’s body.

Dean was kissing him, Sammy’s lips, his face.  Sammy’s smooth face, hairless still, like a girl’s.  Like Robin’s –but Dean’s mind glanced away from this.  Sammy, Sammy before him, Sammy under Dean’s hands and mouth again, finally.  His tongue in Sammy’s mouth, stroking, stroking Sammy’s mouth.

Sammy was writhing.  He’d thrust his cock tightly up against Dean’s cock, bucking against him, rubbing, the friction unbearably sweet.  Dean felt pleasure start to spiral through him, uncontrollable.

Sammy was moaning, shuddering.  Clinging to Dean like he wanted to bury himself beneath Dean’s skin.  Dean was coming.  “Sammy,” he whispered harshly.  “God- ” Pleasure exploding through him.  And Sammy, Sammy shuddering beneath him.  Dean buried his face in Sammy’s throat.

Sammy was lying quietly under the weight of his body.  Dean felt the soft rise and fall of his ribs.  He kept his face turned into Sammy’s throat, the warm damp skin.  Felt Sammy’s hands on his back.

Dean raised his head, looked down at his brother.  Sammy was gazing up at him.  There were tears in his eyes.

Dean kissed him, saw Sammy’s eyes close then open, again.  They looked at each other.

“You okay?” Dean asked.  Looked at his brother.

Sammy smiled back, shyly.  “Yeah,” he said.

Dean kissed him softly, kissed Sammy’s face, his eyelids.  Sammy receiving those kisses, raising his face up.  He'd closed his eyes again.  Dean kissed his forehead, stroked a hand over Sammy’s hair.  Then he levered himself off Sammy’s body, lay down beside him.  Pulled his brother into his arms.

Sammy put his arms around Dean’s waist.  Buried his face against Dean’s chest.

Dean kissed his hair.  “Sammy,” he murmured to his brother.  Sammy’s face, pressed against him.

“You mine, Sammy?” Dean asked him softly.

“Yes,” Sammy whispered.  His face against Dean’s chest.

“You gonna be mine forever?” Dean asked him.

“Yes,” Sammy whispered.  “Forever.”

“No more talk of leavin,” Dean said.

“No.”

“And you’re gonna listen to me,” Dean said, with some emphasis.  “Do what I say.”

“Yes,” Sammy said.

Dean held his brother.  He felt a strong, fierce happiness springing up, blooming inside of his chest.  “I’ll always be here for you Sammy,” he said.  “I’ll protect you.  Take care of you, always.”

“I know,” Sammy whispered.  “Dean.”

Dean kissed the top of his brother’s head.  “And you'll be with me, Sammy,” he continued.  “Always.  My Sam.  And you’re never gonna regret it.”  Dean was shaking again, with the strength of his promise.  And then kissing him, kissing Sammy again.

The feeling of Sammy, nestled quietly against his body. 

Sammy, lying in Dean's arms, quiet.


	18. Chapter 18

Dean was stroking him.

Long, slow strokes over Sam’s back and shoulders.  Sam was in Dean’s arms, his face against Dean’s chest.  His nose was buried in Dean’s worn cotton shirt, the smell of laundry soap and Dean.  His arms were around Dean’s waist.  His eyes were closed.

Dean’s hand, stroking slow along Sam’s back.  Sam was getting drowsy.

“Sammy.”  Dean’s low voice.

“Yeah?” Sam drowsy against Dean’s chest.

“C’n you take off your shirt?”

Sam opened his eyes.  “What?”

“Take off your shirt.”

Sam looked up.  Dean was watching him.  The green eyes, shadowy in the dim bedroom, looking back at him.

Sam sat up.  He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.  Strands of hair fell into his eyes and he absently blew them away.  Looked up.  Dean was smiling at him.  Then he stopped smiling.  He stared at Sam silently.

Sam felt shy suddenly, aware of his scrawny, adolescent self.  He hunched his shoulders.  “What you lookin at?”

Dean didn’t say anything.  But then he reached up, stroked a hand over Sam’s bare shoulders and down along one arm.  Ran the back of his hand lightly over Sam’s chest. 

The touch of Dean’s hand.  Sam closed his eyes, involuntarily.  “What’re you doin?” he asked faintly.

“I like the way your skin feels,” Dean said.  “I always have.”  Dean’s strong, slightly callused fingers, stroking him.  “Lie down again Sammy.”  He pushed Sam gently down.

Sam lying down, his head next to Dean’s on the pillow.  Dean stroking him, running his hand slowly over Sam’s back and sides.  Sam stared at him.  Dean was watching him, stroking Sam slowly, his eyes darkening. 

Sam shivered, suddenly.  He blinked.  Looked at Dean again.  Dean was smiling at him now, the green eyes lazy.  

“You okay there, Sammy?” he asked.

Sam swallowed.  “Yeah.”

“You enjoyin this?” Dean asked.  His hand, running gently over Sam’s bare skin.

“Yeah,” Sam said, softly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  His voice was thoughtful.  “You always did like this didn’t you Sammy?  Bein stroked.  Rubbed. Always askin me for it.”  A different tone in his voice, now.  Dean rubbed his hand over Sam’s chest again, taking his time, his fingers stroking along Sam’s ribs, his abdomen.  Then his hand along Sam’s back, again. 

Sam had closed his eyes with pleasure.  Dean.

Dean was pulling gently at the waistband of Sam’s shorts.   “Why’nt you take these off too?”

Sam opened his eyes.  “Seriously?”

Dean raised his eyebrows.  “Did you think I was jokin?”

Sam hesitated.  “Well, no…but- “

“Then what you waitin for?”  Dean’s voice. 

Sam was reluctant.  His shyness had returned, stronger than before.  Dean would understand.  If Sam explained this to him. 

“I don’t- “

“Sammy.”  Dean’s voice was cool now.  Sam suddenly remembered the way Dean had looked at him last night in the car, that assessing, rather distant glance.  “Stop arguin.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean was watching him quietly.  His eyes were serious again.

Sam put his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and started to pull them down, fumbling, making a point of leaving on his underwear.  He glanced at Dean, embarrassed.  Dean was smiling.  “Those too,” he said mildly.

Sam’s face was hot.  He tugged his shorts and underwear down, wriggling out of them.  Kicked them off.  Ducked his head, agonizingly conscious of his exposed cock, which had hardened again.  Maybe Dean wouldn’t notice.

Then Dean’s fingers under Sam’s chin, tilting his face up.  His quiet voice.  “Look at me, Sammy.”

Sam met Dean’s eyes.  He was conscious of his hot face.  He glared at Dean, mad suddenly, at Dean for making him do this.  _“What?”_

Dean was smiling.  His hand brushed Sam’s cock.  Sam’s breath caught.  “I remember when this was just a little dingle,” Dean said conversationally.  “All those times I washed you, changed you…you remember that, Sammy?”  His fingers, lightly stroking Sam’s cock.

Sam was dying.  “Dean-“ 

“You remember, Sammy?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He was having trouble breathing. He spoke with difficulty.  “Sorta.”

“Sorta.” Dean’s voice was thoughtful.  His fingers stroked the length of Sam’s cock, Sam dying under the sensation, his cock rigidly hard.  “You’re gettin big now, Sammysam,” Dean said to him.  “Growin up.”

Sam was dying, here. “Dean, what’re you _doin?_ C’mon-  “

Dean’s fingers were around him suddenly.  He pulled lightly on Sam’s cock.  Sam gasped.  _“Dean!”_   His hands moved protectively towards his groin.

 _“Stay still!”_   Dean’s voice like a lash.  Sam froze.

Dean continued, more mildly.  “I’m doin…whatever I want.”  A light, cool voice.  Dean sounded like a stranger.  Sam was shivering.  He held his hands rigidly at his sides, afraid to move them.  “Dean…c’mon,” he tried again.  “You’re freakin me out.”

“Uh huh.”  Dean didn’t sound concerned.  He was pulling lightly on Sam’s cock.  “How’s this feel Sammy?” 

Pulling on him. 

“Feel good?”

It felt incredible.  Sam wasn’t breathing.  “Yeah,” he whispered.

“Does it feel like this when you jack off?” Dean asked.  His voice was casual, like this was some normal question.  Sam blinked.  Dean knew about that?

“Sammy?”  Dean’s callused fingers, pulling on him.  His thumb, rubbing.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered again.  He was flushed with embarrassment, his whole skin hot.  He shut his eyes.

“Yeah,” Dean repeated, softly.  Then asked, “’N’ what do you think about Sammy…when you’re jackin off?  What’s your mind on?”  Lightly stroking Sam’s cock.

Sam shuddering.

Dean tugged on him gently.  Sam’s body arched towards him, helpless.  His head was tossing.  Dean’s voice.  “Sammy?  Answer me.”

“You,” Sam whispered.  Dean’s fingers closed hard around him.  Sam gasped. 

“`N’ what am I _doin_ to you Sammy?” Dean asked.  Sam looked at him.  Dean, watching him.

Sam turned his head away.  He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Dean rubbed his thumb over the tip of Sam’s cock.  It was slick with moisture.  Sam was leaking on him.  He was mortified to feel this, shuddering.

“Dean _please,”_ he gasped, choked.  “You’re gonna- “ he stopped, unable to continue.

“ – Make you come?” Dean whispered.  He didn’t sound so calm now.  He was pulling hard on Sam’s cock.  “You gonna come for me, Sammy?”

Sam was beyond answering.  A wave of ecstasy rolled through him and he broke under it, carried away.  His cock was pumping, spurting into Dean’s hand.  He’d thrown his head back, his whole body shuddering, abandoned.

Lost, he was lost, here.

Dean’s hand, on him.

He was lost.

Sam lay still on the bed, the flood of sensation slowly ebbing from his body.  He was aware of Dean beside him, watching him.  But he was unable to react, unable to do anything but just lie there motionless.  His body didn’t feel like his, anymore.

Then Dean put his arms around him.  He gathered Sam back into his chest, tucking Sam’s head under his chin.  Sam rested his forehead on his brother’s chest.  He kept his eyes tightly closed. 

Dean was quiet.  Then he started stroking Sam, again.

Sam lay still.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t move.  He didn’t know _what_ to say, what to do, after this.

He was never going to look at Dean again. 

The two of them, silent, on the bed.  The slow, soft strokes of Dean’s hands, on Sam’s body.

Sam lying still.  Keeping his body still.  If Dean wasn’t going to say anything about what had just happened, well, neither would he.  He started to relax again under Dean’s hands, in spite of himself. 

He wouldn’t think about _(what had happened)_ anything.

 _(His cock, Dean’s hand around his bare cock, Dean jacking him off)._  

No, he wouldn’t think about anything.  Nothing.  And that was okay.

Sam was getting drowsy again.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice.  “Look at me.”

Sam ignored him.   

Dean patted Sam’s cock lightly.  Ran his fingers over him.  Sam winced.  Dean’s fingers on him were gentle but Sam was tender, his cock sensitized and sore.  He kept his face buried against Dean’s chest.  If Sam acted like he wasn’t here maybe Dean would shut up. 

Dean’s fingers, under his chin.  “Look at me Sammy.”

Sam opened his eyes reluctantly.  Dean gazing at him.  The green eyes.

Sam looked back at Dean silently.  Dean’s hands on him _(stroking him, his cock, making him come)_.  Sam was upset, suddenly.  Why had Dean done that?

“What’d you go and do _that_ for?” he asked his brother.

Dean smiled at him.  “All those times I took care of you,” he replied. 

Dean didn’t say anything more.  Seemed to think this was enough.

Sam frowned at him.  “…And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice snappish now.

Dean looked at him briefly then looked away.  “All those times,” he said again.  He wasn’t smiling now.  “All those times…takin care of you.  Cleanin you up.  Puttin you to bed, snugglin with you till you were asleep.”  He paused.  Then said.  “Remember when you were learnin to walk Sammy, and I’d run after you, in case you fell down?”

“No,” Sam replied dryly.  “I don’t remember that far back, Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes were distant.  His hands, resting on Sam absently. “Feedin you…dressin you…Lookin after you when you were sick…remember that time you had the stomach flu Sammy?  `N’ I stayed back from school for a week, lookin after you, bringin you a bowl to throw up in?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled at this.  “I remember that.”

“Boy, you could puke,” Dean said.

“You weren’t too thrilled about that,” Sam said.

“Nah, I didn’t mind,” Dean replied.  “Got me off from school, anyways.”

Sam wasn’t smiling now.  He felt sad suddenly, tears rising.  His big brother. 

“I didn’t make you feel bad about that, did I?” Dean asked him.  “I never meant to.”

Sam hesitated.  “No.”  He spoke carefully, trying to keep the tears out of his voice.  “You were great, Dean,” he said.  “You were _(always there, mine)_ great,” he said, softly.

Dean looked at him.  His eyes were somewhat distant again, considering.  “Even when I spanked your ass?” he asked.

Sam swallowed.  Dean’s words had sent a bolt of sensation into his cock.  Sam shifted uncomfortably, felt Dean’s hands tighten on him reflexively.  He stilled.  “Yeah,” he said, strained.  “You didn’t spank me unless I was actin up.  I always knew I deserved it.”

Dean was quiet.  Then he rubbed his thumb along Sam’s cock, slowly, back and forth.  Sam bit his lip at the sensation, lighting him up again, unbelievably.  “Uh huh,” Dean said.  “You sure did, Sammy, you sure did your best to get me riled, sometimes.  Sometimes I’d think you were actin up on purpose.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“And don’t think I won’t do it again,” Dean said.  “If I think you deserve it.”  Stroked his thumb along Sam’s cock.  Sam felt blood rushing to his groin.  He was mortified…he couldn’t be getting hard again, after all this.  He bit his lip.  Moved his hips involuntarily, thrusting his cock against Dean’s palm.  He put his face against Dean’s throat, wordless.

Dean took his hand away.  Sam lay still, disappointed.  Then Dean’s voice.  “Turn around, Sammy.”

Sam raised his head.  Dean was watching him again, the dark green eyes.  Sam couldn’t make out their expression.  “Sammy,” Dean said quietly.  “Turn around.”

Sam turned himself around.  He was barely breathing, his skin tingling, painfully conscious of Dean lying behind him, on the bed.  Then he felt Dean’s hand, gently stroking the bare skin of his back.  Sam closed his eyes.

Then Dean’s hand on his bare butt, rubbing it.  Sam’s lips parted.  He was breathing through his mouth, with difficulty. “Dean- “

“Shh.”  Dean’s hand on his butt, cupping it, stroking it slowly.  “Round little ass,” Dean said, quietly.

Sam tilted his head back against Dean, helpless again, under this new touch.  His cock was rigidly hard, throbbing.  He was dying to touch it.  Moved his hand towards it, thoughtlessly.  Suddenly a hard swat on his butt.  Sam gasped. 

Dean’s voice against his ear.  “What are you doin?”

Sam was frozen.  “Dean, I just- “

“You don’t touch yourself, Sammy, without my say,” Dean said.  That cool tone in his voice, again.  “Not anymore.”

Sam was confused.  “What?”

Dean’s voice.  “Leave yourself alone, down there.”

Sam was getting upset.  This was a bit too much already.  Even for his brother.  “…Dean _…_ you can’t just _tell_ me not to- “

Dean’s voice.  “Yeah I can.  I just did.  That’s off limits to you now, except for peein and washin.  No more jackin off.”

Sam didn’t understand.  “But… _why?”_

Dean’s hand on him, suddenly, curling around Sam’s cock.  His thumb, rubbing.  Sam gasped.  He felt himself start to shudder.  “Because it's mine,” Dean said matter-of-factly.  Then he was kissing Sam again, his lips on the back of Sam’s neck.  Sam shuddering.  “I’ll be takin care of it from now on,” Dean said, his voice softer now, a murmur. “…along with the rest of you.”

Sam was shuddering.  Dean’s hand on his cock, pulling on him.  Dying again, Sam was dying.  But Dean’s words.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about them.  “You’re kidding,” Sam said faintly.

“Nope.”  Dean sounded pretty definite.

“What if I don’t go along with that?” Sam asked him.

Dean pulled hard on Sam’s cock.  Sam gasped again.  “You’ll go along,” Dean said.  He was smiling now, Sam heard the smile in his voice.  “Or I’ll spank your ass raw.”

Pleasure was flooding Sam’s body, taking him over.  Dean’s hand on him, relentless, Dean curved around him, a hard, warm presence.  Sam felt the bulge of his brother’s cock, pressed against his butt.  Sam felt this...and then he arched his back, pressing against it.  Heard Dean’s breath hiss against his ear.

Sam was shaking, helpless with pleasure.  _“Dean…”_

His brother, his fingers and thumb around Sam’s cock, pulling it, rubbing it, owning Sam’s cock.  And Sam dying from this, of pleasure.

"...What Sammy?" Dean's voice.  "You have somethin to say to me?"

Sam silent, gasping, shattered.

Dean's voice, roughening.  "Sammy -you have somethin to say?"Pulling on him.  Sam gasping.

“You'll do whatever you want,” he replied, helplessly.  “With me.”

Dean’s hard cock, tight against his butt.  Dean moving his hips, the hard bulge of his cock rubbing against Sam’s butt.  “That’s right,” Dean said.  His breath was ragged. His hand, pulling hard on Sam’s cock.

Sam shuddering.  “And I'll do whatever you say,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean whispering back unevenly.  “That’s right Sammy.”  His mouth, his tongue on Sam's skin.

Sam was coming.  He’d thrown his head back.  He felt Dean's mouth against his throat, Dean’s body pressed against him, Dean's ragged breath in his ear.

“’N’ that’s…what you want,” Sam gasped.  He was spurting into Dean’s hand, overcome, thrusting slickly between Dean’s fingers.  Dimly aware of Dean shuddering behind him, pressed tight against Sam’s butt. 

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back, almost soundless.  "That’s what I want.  That’s right Sammy.”  

Dean was lying behind him, his chest rising and falling against Sam's back. Then Dean released Sam’s cock, wrapped both arms around Sam in a tight hug.  He pressed his hands against Sam’s chest, drawing Sam close.  Curled his hard body around Sam’s, Sam aware of himself enclosed in the warm curve of Dean, Dean’s rough cheek, rubbing against him.

Sam was in tears again. 

“I'll do whatever you want,” he said to Dean.  His big brother, finally back with him.  Holding him.  Kissing Sam, stroking him, his strong sure hands on Sam’s body. “Anythin…” Sam began.  Swallowed painfully.  He meant what he said, every word.  “Anythin you say,” he whispered. 

Sam lay limply on the bed, in Dean’s arms. 

Then he felt Dean kiss the back of his neck.  “Yeah,” Dean answered, quietly. 

Kissing him, nuzzling Sam’s neck. 

Murmuring to him, “You will, Sammy.  You will.”


	19. Chapter 19

Dean was lying behind Sam, quiet.

The two of them, on the bed, tucked together like spoons, Dean pressed warmly up against Sam, one arm acting as a pillow under Sam’s head, the other wrapped around Sam’s waist.  Dean hadn’t spoken for the last little while, hadn’t moved. 

Sam lay there, boneless, absorbing this new way his big brother was holding him. 

Sam was used to Dean holding him.  He’d grown up with Dean’s hugs, casually affectionate, sometimes comforting, sometimes seeking comfort, Dean clutching Sam to himself like a teddy bear.  But not like this.

Dean holding Sam with such satisfaction.   Like he was relishing the fact of Sam, in his arms _._   Dean curled around him like he’d found a treasure _._

It felt wonderful.

Dean’s face buried against him, his mouth resting against Sam’s neck.  Dean’s arms folded around him, Dean wrapped around Sam like a blanket, like he wanted to absorb Sam into his body. 

Dean’s slow, deep contented breaths.

Sam thought about this.  Dean was open to him, finally.  He wasn’t fighting this thing that had happened between them.  Not anymore.  Sam could feel it in the sweet weight of his brother’s body against him.

And Sam was happy.  He lay there, happy, conscious only of Dean, surrounding him.

For awhile.  Then he was less happy.

Getting cramped. 

Sam wriggled, attempting to adjust his position.  The hard arm around his waist tightened immediately.  His brother’s voice, grumbling.  “Stay still.”

“Dean, I’m kinda stiff,” Sam answered.  “Lemme turn around.”

“No.”  Dean’s voice low, but definite.

“Dean,” Sam tried again.  “C’mon.  I’m gettin uncomfortable here.  Lemme turn around, okay?”

Dean not moving.  “No.  Stay still Sammy, I wanna take a nap.  Lemme sleep why don’t you.”

Sam was laughing (sort of).  “Dean, Jesus.  Nobody’s sayin you can’t take a nap.  But lemme turn around at least.  Stretch out.  C’mon.”

Dean sighed.  “Okay…fine.”  He relaxed his grip, giving Sam room to move.  Sam turned himself around, straightening out his body with relief.  Faced Dean.  The green eyes were open.  He and Dean gazed at each other.  Dean’s arm fell heavily across Sam’s waist again. 

Sam smiled.  “Hi.”

Dean smiled back.  “Hi.”  Gazing at him.

“I thought you were goin to take a nap,” Sam said.

Dean’s lazy smile.  “I am.”  His eyes closed.

Sam watched his brother silently.  Minutes passed.  Dean was breathing soft and slow.  Sam waited a little longer, than shifted carefully, trying to ease out from under Dean’s arm.

Which immediately tightened around his waist like a clamp.  “Where you goin?”  Dean’s eyes were open again, but not smiling this time.

“I want to get dressed,” Sam said.

Dean closed his eyes.  His arm stayed locked around Sam’s waist.  “Nah,” he said briefly.  “You c’n stay the way you are.”

Was he serious?  “Dean, c’mon- ” Sam tried, again.  He yanked lightly on Dean’s arm (immovable).

Dean didn’t open his eyes.  “I told you before Sammy, stop arguin.  You c’n get dressed when I say.” 

Sam didn’t like that.  “Dean, you can’t…be like that.  Okay?  I didn’t sign up for that.”

Dean’s eyes, closed.  “Yeah… you did, Sammy.  It just needs to sink in, is all.”

Sam didn’t reply, not sure _what_ to say (I mean, was Dean _serious,_ here?)  Dean’s words had upset him…but Sam felt strangely distant from that at the same time, like he was observing himself through a window. 

“No,” he said, eventually.

“Yes,” Dean answered, with some finality.  He hadn’t opened his eyes.  He was breathing slowly, calmly.  His face lay before Sam on the pillow, his eyes closed, his face beautiful and quiet. 

Dean’s beautiful face.

Sam was silent, watching him.

His big brother.

Sam waited.  Then said, “…Then…you got to take off your clothes too.”

Dean opened his eyes.  “Not right now.”

“Yeah, right now,” Sam said.  “Take off your shirt, Dean.”

Dean looked at him. 

Sam stared back, steadily.

Dean abruptly sat up.  He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it onto the floor.  Lay down again, watching Sam.

Sam gazed at his brother, the hard muscled torso, the broad sculpted shoulders, the vertical groove of muscle running down the middle of Dean’s abdomen, the hard, flat planes of his chest, lightly dusted with freckles and downy blonde hair.  His brother, his spectacular warrior’s body, stretched out on the bed in front of him.  Dean.

Sam reached out and ran a hand slowly over Dean’s chest.   Brushed a thumb over one of Dean’s flat nipples, exploring.  Dean watched him, eyes dark, the dark, overcast green of a forest under a sunless sky.

Sam touched his chest, ran his fingers over Dean’s hard abdomen, registering the slight roughness of the golden hairs over the sleek, smooth skin.  Turned his hand over, running the back of it along Dean’s chest, downwards again.   His brother’s face, watching him.

“Dean…” Sam hesitated.

“Yeah?”  Dean’s low voice.  Sam felt the sound of that voice, his brother’s voice, thrumming through his body. 

“Take off your pants,” Sam said.

Dean, looking at him.  Then, incredibly, he blushed.  Sam saw the red flush rising across his entire skin. 

“No,” Dean said.

“Whaddaya mean, no?”  Sam asked him.  “I’m naked, here Dean, because you asked.  And now I’m askin you.  So do it.”

Dean lowered his head.  He wasn’t looking at Sam.  “No,” he said again.

“But why?” Sam asked him.

“Because I don’t want you to see me…” Dean hesitated.  “Like this.”

Sam stared at him.  Then he got it, suddenly.

“You don’t want me to see what Dad did to you,” he said.

Dean’s face was lowered, a pained expression twisting his features.  “Yeah,” Dean said.  He didn’t look at Sam.

Sam felt sad for his brother, suddenly.  Sad, but also furious, a hot anger blooming in his chest.  “I want to see, Dean,” he said.  He heard his own voice, clanging like metal.  “I want to see what he did.”

“Why Sammy?” Dean asked.  “Why do you care?”

“How can you even ask that?” Sam replied.  “Take off your pants, Dean.  I want to see.”

Dean was silent.  His hands moved tentatively towards the waistband of his jeans then stopped.  He glanced at Sam, then looked away.

Sam considered him.  Then he leaned forward and kissed Dean on the mouth.  “It’s okay Dean,” he said quietly.  Kissed him again.

Dean’s mouth had softened under his.  Sam felt his brother’s lips part.  He slipped his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  Felt Dean’s smooth teeth, the warm sweet cave of his brother’s mouth.  Dean was kissing him back now.  Sam nuzzled against him, drugged all over again by the feel of Dean’s mouth, opening to him.  His tongue was in Dean’s mouth, stroking, stroking over the roof of Dean’s mouth.  He felt Dean’s immediate response, Dean’s lips hardening, hungry.  Dean’s arm, tightening around Sam’s waist, pressing Sam against his body.

Sam drew back.  He tilted his head back, looking into Dean’s eyes.  Then he put his hands on the waistband of Dean’s jeans, undid the button.  Started tugging down the zipper of Dean’s fly.  Dean put his hands on top of Sam’s.  “Don’t,” he said.

Sam kissed him again.  “It’s okay,” he whispered.  Kissed him.  Dean’s hands relaxed.  Sam moved them aside, pulled the rest of his zipper down.  Then grasped Dean’s jeans and started trying to tug them off.

Dean grimaced.  “Ouch, Sammy.”

Sam tugged.  “Lift up then.  Help me, Dean.”

Dean lifted his hips.  Sam tugged.  Dean winced.  “Ow.  OW!  No, forget it Sammy.  Just lemme alone.  I’ll get them later, okay?”

“C’mon Dean, you’re a mess,” Sam said.  “Your pants are damp, what were you doin, swimmin in them?  And they’re all…um…sticky.  You know?  You should change at least.  Lemme get you some clean shorts.”

Dean had turned his face into the pillow.  “No,” he said, his voice stifled. 

Sam looked at him, frustrated.  Dean could be so goddamn stubborn.  And large.  Larger than Sam.  Immovable, except by persuasion.  It was frustrating.

But Dean was uncomfortable here.  Hurt.

Sam stroked a hand over Dean’s shoulders and arms.  Stroked his back.  Put his face close to Dean’s and kissed his cheek.  Kissed his cheek again.  “Mmmph, Sammy,” Dean muttered into the pillow.

Sam kissed him.  “C’mon Dean, lemme help you.”  Dean turned his face towards Sam slightly.

Sam found his mouth, kissed his brother’s lips again.  Kissed him softly, Dean’s lips parting.  Sam’s hand was on Dean’s abdomen, the ridges of muscle, there.  Sam stroked his hand downwards, along the light trail of blonde hair.

He slipped his hand into the front of Dean’s jeans.  Turned his palm against Dean’s cock, under the thin, damp cotton of his undershorts.  Felt it hardening, firm under his hand.  He kissed Dean’s lips, softly.

Dean shifted against Sam’s hand.  He was making a noise against Sam’s mouth, humming.  Sam stroked him.  “I wanna see you Dean,” he whispered into Dean’s mouth.  “It’s my turn.  You gotta be fair.”

Dean opened his eyes.  He broke off their kiss, staring at Sam.  They watched each other for a moment.  Then Dean said, “Fine.”  He raised his hips and gingerly peeled off his jeans and shorts, grimacing with discomfort.  Kicked his clothes onto the floor.  Then settled back on the bed, facing Sam.

Sam looked at him.  His brother’s strong, long legs, iron hard with muscle.  The graceful curve of Dean’s waist, his hips.  His flushed cock, fully erect now, standing up from a nest of golden hair.  Dean had folded one arm under his head.  He lay quietly on the bed, watching Sam, letting Sam look at him.

Sam’s chest was tight.  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Dean looked away.  He was blushing again, Sam noticed.  “Don’t say that Sammy,” Dean said.  “That’s for chicks.”

Sam smiled.  He felt laughter bubbling up and tamped it down, ruthlessly.  “Sorry,” he said.  “What I meant was…you’re really hot.  I c’n see why chicks dig you so much.”

Dean smiled back.  “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, softly.  He reached a hand out, stroked it lightly over Dean’s hip.  “C’n you turn over Dean?  Lemme see your butt.”

Dean stopped smiling.  He hesitated, then turned onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms.

Sam raised himself up on one elbow, looked down at Dean’s butt.  He gasped.

“What’s it look like?” Dean mumbled.

Sam was sitting up now.  He’d crossed his own arms around his front, clutching himself.  He was trying not to react, here.  Not to jump to his feet and scream, like he wanted to.  “It…looks pretty bad, Dean.  Must hurt, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Hurts like a bitch.”

Sam was biting his lip, tears welling in his eyes, in spite of himself. 

Dean’s butt was deep purple with bruises, black in some spots.  The skin had broken in a couple of places, thick ridged welts, beaded with blood.  On one cheek, blood had pooled close to the skin, a spot of bright red rising up in the middle of the purple.  The bruising continued down to the tops of Dean’s thighs.

“Dean-“ Sam swallowed.  “How hard did he hit you?”

“Harder’n he ever has,” Dean said.  “Thought he was goin to take the skin right off me.”

“Wh-why?” Sam asked, choked.  Saw Dean’s shoulders shrug.  “I had it comin, I guess.”

Sam was furious.  “No, Dean…that’s not the question I’m askin.  I’m askin…why the fuck did you _take it?”_

Dean raised his head, looked over his shoulder.  His eyes on Sam were cold.  “Because…I had it comin… like I said, Sammy.  I wouldn’t’ve taken it, otherwise.”

Sam shook his head.  “I wish you’d leave him, Dean.  Take me and get the hell outa here.  What’re you stickin around for?  Him expectin you to risk your life, on his say.  Us gettin dragged around constantly, not able to finish a school year _once_ in the same place.  Never any friends, never anyone we c’n _talk_ to, other than Bobby.  And now you gettin beat like this.  Is it _worth it,_ Dean?  Why’re we still here?”

“Because I want to be a hunter,” Dean answered briefly.  “Dad’s partner.  You know that Sammy, I’ve told you that before.  That’s all I want.  What I was raised for.  ‘N’ dad’s still teachin me.”

“By beating you?”  Sam asked bitterly.

Dean had turned on his side again.  He looked at Sam.  “That was the last time,” he said.  “I told Dad I wouldn’t take it anymore.  Made it clear to him that if I was goin to risk my life like a man, he was goin to treat me like one.  So it’s not goin to happen anymore, okay Sammy?  Not to me, or to you either, because I’m not gonna do that to you either, anymore, not after that last time.”  His voice softened.  “I heard what you said that night, Sammy.” 

Sam considered this.  Then said, “You were threatenin me, earlier.  Said you were gonna spank me.”

Dean grinned suddenly.  “Well, yeah,” he replied.  “I didn’t say I wasn’t goin to keep you in line.  You’re still my responsibility, little brother.  You’re goin over my knee if you rile me up.”  He stopped smiling.  “But no more belt,” he said, seriously now.  “No standin in the corner.  That’s over, Sammy, for you ‘n’ me both.  I promise.”  He paused.  “And I’m sorry, Sammy.  I’m sorry about the last time, in case I didn’t make that clear to you already.  I shoudn’t’ve punished you like that, with me losin my temper and all, and I’m sorry.”

Sam closed his eyes briefly.  “Thanks Dean.”

“Yeah,”  Dean said.

They were both quiet.

Then Sam said, “C’n I get you somethin Dean?  Some painkillers or somethin?”

“Sure,” Dean answered.  “See if there’s some aspirin, somewhere. ‘N’ maybe get me an icepack.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He rose to his feet.  Hesitated.  Then asked, “C’n I get dressed now?”

Dean surveyed him.  “You c’n put on a pair of shorts,” he said, judiciously. 

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Gee, thanks,” he said.  He went over to his duffel bag and pulled out clean shorts and a fresh pair of underwear.  Put them on, conscious of Dean’s eyes on him. 

Dean’s voice.  “…And put the dirty clothes in our laundry bag, willya?  I’ll find us a laundromat, next time we’re in town.”

Dean, the housewife.  Sam felt a great love for Dean, suddenly, rising up like a sun inside him.  Dean was always doing things like that, seeing to their comforts, their family’s day to day life, making a home for Sam and their dad, wherever they ended up.  He went over to the bed and kissed his brother on the forehead.  “Okay,” he said.  Kissed Dean again.  It was such a pleasure to kiss Dean, to kiss him like he wanted to.  Such wonderful freedom, to be able to kiss Dean, like this.  He loved it.  He bent over Dean’s face, nuzzling him, his lips on Dean’s skin.

Dean was getting restless under all the kissing.  He frowned, gently batting Sam away from his face.  “Go on, Sammy.  You’re gettin me ice, remember?  And aspirin.  Get movin.”

Sam straightened up, smiling.  Then he walked into the other room, peered into the freezer.  Saw a tray of ice.  He went over to the pile of their dad’s things by the couch, not yet put away.  Found some towels and the laundry bag, already full of stinky dad socks and some of Sam’s unwashed clothes, from when they’d left Bobby’s so abruptly.  Opened their dad’s washkit.  No aspirin.  Sam hunted around in their dad’s things a little more, then went back to the bedroom, carrying the laundry bag.  Looked at his brother’s prone body, now stretched out on the bed, face down, again.  Dean’s pale, lightly freckled skin, glowing in the dim room, sleek except for the bruises marring his butt. 

“I cn’t see any aspirin, Dean,” Sam said.  “Dad must’ve left it in the car.”

Dean sighed.  “Then get me a shot of Dewars.  I saw a fresh bottle, there.”

Sam was gathering up their dirty clothes, shoving them into the laundry bag.  “Won’t Dad notice?”

“Probably.”  Dean didn’t sound concerned.

Sam went back to the other room, tossing the laundry bag near the front door.  Then laid out a towel on the table and cracked the ice into it.  Folded it into a pad.  Went back to the bedroom.  “Here,” he said.  He laid the ice-filled towel gently over Dean’s butt.  Dean hissed.  “Ouch.”

“It’ll feel better soon,” Sam said.  “I’ll be right back.”  He went back to the kitchen, re-filled the ice tray from the tap and put it in the freezer (Dean would need another icepack later).  Then he found the unopened bottle of Dewars, cracked the cap, and poured a healthy shot of whiskey into a glass.  Brought it to Dean.  “Here.”

Dean raised himself up, took the glass.  Downed the whiskey in one gulp, handed the glass back to Sam.  “Thanks.”

Sam frowned at him.  “You’re drinkin like Dad,” he said.

Dean’s head was back in his arms again.  “No I’m not,” he said.  “You’ll notice I’m not askin for another.  I’m not gonna get drunk around you Sammy, don’t worry.”

Sam put the glass down on the bedside table.  He stood over Dean uncertainly.  “You need anythin else?”

Dean reached out a hand.  Sam took it.  “I’m gonna sleep for a bit Sammy,” he said.  “Stay with me, okay?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Just lemme get my book.”  He went over to his bag and retrieved his latest (overdue) library book.  Lay down carefully on the bed beside Dean, opened it, and started to read.  Felt his brother’s arm settle over his waist, again.

Dean was sleeping. 

Sam listened to his breaths, soft, deep and slow.  Dean’s breathing, Sam was so used to that sound.  He’d grown up with it his entire life, the sound of Dean breathing.  That sound, for his entire life.  The sound of life.

Sam carefully removed Dean’s arm from around his waist, then sat up and leaned over the towel he’d laid over Dean’s butt, touched it experimentally.   It was soggy and freezing wet.  It had been on Dean for long enough, by now. 

Sam got up and bent over Dean, carefully peeling the towel off.  Looked at Dean’s butt. 

The swelling had gone down, the welts diminished.   But the bruising was still terrible to see.  Dean wouldn’t be comfortable for days.  Sam stared, feeling a helpless rage rise up in him, again.

“Some start to a summer vacation, huh?”  Dean’s voice.  Sam looked up.  The rage was still in his eyes.

Dean looked at him…then said softly.  “C’mon Sammy, don’t take it so hard.  It’s over, okay?”

“It’s not over,” Sam replied, harshly.  “We’re still here, aren’t we?  We should be gone.  And if you had any sense, we would be.”

Dean’s face stilled.  Then he said.  “I’m not leavin Dad.  He ’n’ I have come to terms Sammy, and I’ve made that decision.  So don’t bring it up again.”

“What kind of terms?” Sam asked.

“No more beatins,” Dean said.  “I already told you that.  I’m responsible for my own decisions from now on ‘n’ Dad’s goin to respect them.   And no more splittin you ‘n’ me up.  _That’s_ never happenin again.  I told Dad _I’m_ the one’s gonna finish bringin you up and that’s it.  You ‘n me are stayin together.   And I told him…we’re goin to have our own room from now on, no sharin with him anymore.  And I’m goin to get work, to help pay for it.  So we’ll have some privacy.”  Dean smiled at him.  “Sound good, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t smile back.  “You’re talkin like all of that’s a big deal,” he said.  “But all I’m hearin is that we’re stayin.”

Dean frowned.  “Why’re you bein a bitch, Sammy?  It _is_ a big deal, and you know it.  I thought I did kinda good, there.  Why can’t you be happy, for once?”

Sam sighed, exasperated.  “Because…Dad’s _still_ gonna put you in danger, whenever he feels like it,” he answered.  His teeth were clenched, furious (why couldn’t Dean _see?_ ).  He continued.  “And we’re _still_ gonna have to tiptoe around him, his temper and his drinkin.  And we’re _still_ gonna have to be real careful…Dean…about this.  You say Dad’s not gonna split us up again.  I’m tellin you, he finds out what we’re doin, he’ll get rid of me so fast you won’t see it comin.  He’ll leave me at the nearest truckstop with a nametag on my shirt.  Take off with you.   You know he will.”

Dean looked upset now.  “He would _never_ , Sammy,” he replied.  “Don’t talk like that about him.  He’s your dad too.”

Sam snorted.  “He only tolerates me because of you,” he said.  “Dean.  Don’t kid yourself.  And if he finds out what we’ve been doin…the…kissin and such…that’s gonna be the end.  It’s gonna be one or the other of us that goes.  And trust me…it’s not goin to be you.”

“He’ll never find out,” Dean said dismissively.  “And anyway…even if he did, I’d never let him get rid of you.  You think I’d stay with him if he tried to do that?  If he tried, Sammy, I _would_ …leave him.  I’d take you and go.  And I’m sure he knows that.   So he’d never try it, Sammy.  He knows I wouldn’t put up with it.  I’d leave him first.”

Dean, leaving with him.  Taking Sam away.  A bloom of hope in Sam’s chest. 

“…So if you’re so prepared to leave him over me, Dean, then why don’t you just do it, already?” Sam asked him.  “It’s gonna come down to that one day, anyway.”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “No…it’s not.  Because _you’re_ not goin to let it.  _You’re_ not goin to force me to make a choice between him ‘n’ you, Sammy.”

Sam felt disappointment crash through him.  He took a moment to answer.  “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

“Because you owe me,” Dean answered.  “You owe me that.”

Sam was surprised, hearing this.  At Dean saying such a thing, to him.  _That’s_ what Dean had thought, all along?

“What do you mean?” Sam asked him again.

Dean’s voice.  “ _I’m_ the one who’s raised you, Sammy.  Not Dad, not Bobby, not anyone else.  It’s been _me._   You know that.  _I’m_ the reason you’re with me ‘n’ Dad right now and not in foster care.  Me.”  Dean’s voice had roughened.  “You told me you’d never been a kid.  Well that’s just not true Sammy.  You’ve had your time to be a kid…just worryin about yourself, bitchin at me, complainin if things didn’t go your way.  It’s _me_ that’s never been a kid.  Me.  Because I was lookin out for you.  Always.  I c’n barely remember a time when I wasn’t.  Lookin out for you…steppin in constantly between you and Dad…that’s been _my_ life, Sammy.”  Dean was silent.  Then said again, “So you owe me.”

Sam, listening to this.  Okay, so Dean had a point.  But…so what?

“So what do I owe you then?” Sam asked.

“You owe me shuttin up,” Dean replied.  “You owe me stayin put, and not bitchin to leave every other minute, makin me sweat bullets you’re gonna run away.  You owe me gettin along with Dad so I’m not pulled between you and him all the time.  You owe me…not makin me make a choice.  Between losin him or losin you.  You _owe me_ _that_ , Sammy.”

Sam was trembling.  “So you’re sayin I owe you…my whole life,” he said.

Dean blinked.  “No, I didn’t say that,” he replied.

“Well yeah…you kind of did,” Sam said.  “If my life means gettin away from Dad, gettin away from this _(this nowhere, this nowhere life)…_ you kind of did, Dean.”

Dean looked up at him.  His eyes were angry now, Sam saw.  Then suddenly his hand clamped down around Sam’s wrist.  “Your life is _here,”_ he snapped.  “With me.  You don’t _have_ any other life, Sammy, other than this one.  And you’ve got me now, like you wanted.  And I’ve...got you.  _That’s_ the trade.  So I don’t want to hear you saying anythin different.”

Sam yanked on his wrist.  Dean’s hand tightened, painfully.  Then suddenly he grabbed Sam, dragging him back down onto the bed.  Sam struggled briefly then stopped.  His brother was so strong.  Sam _could_ get away from Dean (Dean had taught him how to do that, how to get away from someone stronger), but that would mean hurting him.  And Sam didn’t want to hurt Dean anymore than he was already.  He allowed Dean to pull him down.

Dean had embraced Sam in a tight hug.  He put his face against Sam’s throat.  “You’re not askin me to choose,” he said.  His voice was raw.  “Between you ‘n’ Dad.  Okay Sammy?  You’re stayin.  _And_ you’re gettin along.  _You owe me this._   Understand?”

Sam understood.  He understood, alright. 

Dean’s face, against his throat.  His brother’s arms, around him.  Dean's body, pressed against Sam’s.  Sam was trembling again, under the weakening pleasure of this.

_(I’ll do anything you say)_

“Lemme look at you, Dean,” Sam whispered.  “Lemme see you.”

Dean raised his head.  Sam looked at his brother’s eyes, observed their expression.  Dean’s green eyes, the pain shining out of them like light.  Eyes raw with hurt.  Bruised.

Sam observed this.  He was quiet.  Then eventually said, “Dean…I’m sorry you got hurt.  I’m real sorry Dad did that to you.”

His brother looked at him.  Then suddenly Dean’s eyes filled with tears.  They ran down his cheek, onto the pillow.  Dean’s expression, twisting.  “Thanks Sammy,” he whispered.

Sam stroked his cheek.  “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said again.  "Sorry you got hurt. Real sorry.” Kissed him.

“…Yeah,” Dean whispered painfully.  “I got hurt real bad.”

Sam, stroking his cheek.  Kissing him.  “I know,” he answered softly.

Dean was crying.

Sam held him.

“…He hurt me so bad,” Dean said.  Sobs were wracking his body.

“I know,” Sam said again.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  His face was back against Sam’s throat.

Sam turned his head, kissed him.

“Don’t leave me,” Dean whispered.

“I won’t,” Sam said.

“Ever,” Dean continued.  “Sammy.  Okay?”

“I won’t, Dean,” Sam answered.  He closed his eyes.  “I promise.”

Dean crying. 

Sam listened to this, the hoarse, rough, painful sound.

Closed his eyes.

Held onto his brother, listening.


	20. Chapter 20

Dean was sleeping. 

He’d cried himself out, Sam holding him.  Then he’d wiped his face, laughed briefly.  “I’ve sure been moanin.  Sorry Sammy.”

“S’okay,” Sam said.  He was stroking Dean’s hair, absently enjoying its texture, like rough silk.

Dean’s face against Sam’s cheek, the light stubble tickling.  Dean was quiet for a moment.  Then asked, “C’n you get me another shot?”

“Sure.”  Sam untangled himself from his brother, rose to his feet.  Picked up the empty glass.  “Do you want a fresh ice pack too?”

“Not yet.  But get me some clothes, willya?”

“Sure.”  Sam took Dean’s glass to the other room, re-filled it with whiskey, brought it back.  Handed it to Dean, who downed it.  “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”  Sam was kneeling over Dean’s duffel bag.  “D’you want underwear too?”

“Nah, just get me some sweats.  And a shirt.”

Sam brought the clothes over to him.  “You need a hand?”

“No, I c’n do it.”  Dean pulled on the sweatpants, grimacing, then shrugged into the fresh t-shirt.  Lay down again.  He smiled at Sam from the bed, then reached out a hand.  “C’mere.” 

Sam took his hand.  “C’n I put a shirt on now, too?”

“Nah,” Dean said.  “I like you the way you are…I like how your skin feels, Sammy.  Come lie back down.”

Sam allowed Dean to pull him back onto the bed.  He turned on his side, pressing his butt into Dean’s crotch.  Felt Dean’s reaction, the slight halt to his breath.  Then Dean’s hands were on Sam’s hips, adjusting him.  He curved his body around Sam.  Sam smiled.  He snuggled luxuriously against his brother.  “…So stroke me then,” he said to Dean.  “Rub my back.”

“God, you’re like a cat,” Dean muttered.  But his hand was on Sam’s back, strong fingers digging into the muscles, his palm stroking over Sam’s skin.  Sam sighed happily.

Dean kissed the nape of his neck.  “Feel good, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.   “Feels awesome.”  They were both quiet, concentrating on the slow strokes of Dean’s hand on Sam’s body.  Then Sam said, “…C’n you rub my head, now?”

Dean dug his fingers into Sam’s hair, rubbed them tingling against his scalp.  Sam felt the pleasure of Dean’s touch running through him like a drug.  He moaned.  Tilted his head back against Dean’s hand.

Dean was breathing harder.  He’d pressed his crotch tight against Sam’s butt and Sam could feel his cock hardening again.  Dean’s lips were against Sam’s neck.  His low voice.  “Anythin else you want, Sammy?”  

“Rub…” Sam swallowed.  “Rub my chest.”  Felt Dean smile against his skin.

Dean’s palm flattened itself on Sam’s chest, a slow massage.  “Like this?”

Sam’s breath was hissing through his lips.  “Yeah…like…like…use your fingers, Dean.  Use your thumb.”

“…You want me to rub your tits like a girl’s?” Dean whispered to him.  He’d put his mouth on Sam’s ear.

Sam was shuddering.  “Yeah,” he whispered back.  “Like that.”

Dean’s thumb started circling Sam’s nipple, pressing down gently.  “Like this?” he asked.  Sam’s lips were parted.  “Yeah…” he breathed.  “Like that, that’s…”  Dean’s thumb, rubbing.  “…oh God,” Sam whispered shakily.  Then, “…Do the other one.”  Heard Dean’s low chuckle.  Then his thumb was on Sam’s other nipple, teasing it, rubbing it very gently.

Sam had pressed himself back against Dean’s crotch.  Felt Dean’s cock, its long length, noticeable through the soft material of his sweatpants, nudging his butt. 

“You like that Sammy?” Dean whispered again.  His fingers and thumb, so exquisitely gentle, rubbing one nipple then the other.  Sam was biting his lip.  Every touch of Dean’s hand was like fire, a line of flame shooting straight into his groin.  He was achingly hard, shuddering.  He couldn’t speak.

“You like bein touched like a girl?” Dean whispered to him.  His fingers and thumb, gently rubbing, circling.  “Answer me,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Sam answered helplessly.  “Don’t stop.”

“Turn around,” Dean said.  Sam turned onto his back, turned his face towards Dean.  “Kiss me,” Dean whispered.  Sam raised his mouth.  Dean’s lips were on his, kissing him, kissing his mouth, Dean’s tongue in Sam’s mouth, Dean’s light, sure touch on his nipples.  Sam sucked on Dean’s tongue, pressed himself up against Dean’s mouth.  He cupped his hands on both sides of Dean’s face, kissing him, kissing kissing kissing Dean, his brother, he could do this forever.  Dean’s smooth lips, opening to him, receiving Sam’s mouth.

Dean raised his head.  Sam whimpered softly in protest, lifting his mouth.  Dean’s palm flattened onto his chest.  “Anythin else you want Sammy?”  He was speaking with difficulty.

“Put your…put your…” Sam paused shyly. 

“…What?”  Dean’s lips were on his, again.

“Put your mouth on me,” Sam whispered.  Dean kissed him.  Then asked softly, “Here?”  His thumb, brushing Sam’s nipple.  “Yeah,” Sam said. 

“Okay.”  Dean raised himself on one elbow, then bent his head over Sam’s chest.  His warm mouth closed over Sam’s nipple, sucking it back, his tongue licking, swirling around the hardened point.  Sam was gasping.  “Ohmigod…” he’d arched his back.  Dean bit him gently.  Sam cried out, his voice hoarse, broken.   His cock was throbbing, unbearably swollen.  He moved to touch it, then stopped, remembering what Dean had said to him about that.  Turned his body towards his brother and thrust his cock hard against him, rubbing himself against Dean helplessly.  Dean’s mouth was on his other nipple, sucking, biting down.  Sam writhed against him, shuddering.

“God Sammy you’re so hot,” Dean muttered.  He was kissing Sam’s stomach, rubbing his face pleasurably over Sam’s skin.  His hands were on Sam’s body, splayed out, stroking him.  “I can’t…stop this.  I can’t stop…touching you, Sammy…you’re makin me crazy.”  His lips, kissing Sam’s chest, kissing his aching nipples, his tongue running over Sam’s nipples, licking over his skin.  Sam’s hands, pressed down on Dean’s head.  “I don’t want you to stop,” Sam whispered.  “Keep goin.”  Dean laughing, shakily. 

Then suddenly his hands were on the waistband of Sam’s shorts, roughly pulling them down.  “I’m putting my mouth on you,” he said.  His voice was challenging, like he was daring Sam to say no. 

Sam was laughing.  This was like Christmas.  “Do it,” he said, smiling.  Then suddenly gasped, all air gone from his lungs.  Dean’s mouth, closing over his cock like a hot brand.  Sam cried out, shocked, moaning under this new onslaught of pleasure, bucking helplessly into Dean’s mouth.

Dean sucking on him, his tongue curled around Sam’s cock, drawing Sam’s cock relentlessly into his mouth.  Sam’s helpless voice, a sound he couldn’t ever have imagined hearing from himself, his hands clutched against Dean’s hair.  And then…coming, he was coming, spurting into Dean’s mouth, the strong ecstasy riding him again. 

Sam was trembling, his breaths heaving.  From a distance he heard Dean coughing _(Dean swallowing his jizz, ohmigod)._   Dean had released his cock, laid his head down on Sam’s stomach, a warm weight.  Sam put his fingers in Dean’s hair.  Neither of them said anything.

Sam stared blankly up at the bedroom’s dim, dark wooden ceiling. 

Lying still, silent, nothing left in him but silence.  He’d started out in one place and ended up in another, he noticed.

He felt the weight of Dean’s head, lying on his stomach.  He stroked Dean’s hair, absently.

Dean’s voice.  “God…you’re such a hot little bitch, Sammy.”

Sam frowned.  “Don’t call me that,” he said.

Dean looked up at him from his place on Sam’s stomach.  Sam saw one considering green eye, peering at him.  Dean smiled slightly.  “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked.  “That’s what you are.”

Sam yanked on his hair.  “No I’m _not,_ Dean.  Don’t say that.”

Dean, looking at him.  He laid a hand casually on Sam’s cock, damp and sensitive under his palm.  Sam winced, made a face.  “No?” Dean asked conversationally.  “What would you call it then?  How many times have I made you come today?”

“I dunno…” Sam said uncomfortably.  “I wasn’t countin.  Does it matter?”

Dean shrugged, grinned.  He looked pretty pleased with himself Sam noticed, annoyed.  “Well…maybe not…if you put it like that.  Shall we try again?”  He pulled on Sam’s cock, gently.  Sam groaned.  “No…okay?  Jesus, Dean.  It’s not like you have to prove anything, here.”

Dean, smiling at him.  “No, I guess not.  You already know what the score is, don’t you Sammy?”

Sam was silent.  Dean watched him.  He wasn’t smiling now.  He rubbed his thumb along Sam’s cock.  Sam winced again.  “Who’s this belong to Sammy?”  Dean asked him.  His voice had roughened.

“You,” Sam whispered.  He was distressed suddenly, a wash of tears rising.  He closed his eyes.

“Yeah…” Dean said, his voice relaxing again, lazy.  “All mine…that I c’n do what I want with.”

“…I can’t believe you’re sayin that,” Sam said, his eyes still closed.

“Me neither,” Dean said.  His voice was thoughtful now.  “I never would have believed it either Sammy, that we’d come to this.  But here we are, I guess.  ‘N’ I’m not goin back…are you?”

“No,” Sam said.  He opened his eyes.  Dean was watching him.  “No,” Sam said again.  “I’m not goin back either.”  Dean smiled at him.  Then he bent his head suddenly, kissed Sam’s cock.  Pulled Sam’s shorts back up and then gently smoothed them into place, running his hands over Sam’s hips.  Sam blinked.  Tears were in his eyes, again.  Dean, his big brother.  Always taking care of him.

Dean had stretched himself back out on the bed.  He groaned.  “God…I feel like shit…C’n barely move.”

Sam’s face twisted with sympathy.  “How long d’you think you’ll be like that?”

“Dunno,” Dean said.  “Couple days, maybe.  Hopefully less.”

Sam was quiet.  He heard Dean’s breaths beside him, slowing. 

Then asked, “That girl…you were takin to that dance…you ever kiss her, Dean?”

Silence from Dean. 

“Well?”  Sam asked again.  “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, warily.

Sam considered this.  Then asked.  “Did you feel her tits Dean?  Kiss ’em?”

A pause.  “Why you askin, Sammy?”

“I want to know,” Sam said.  “Seemed like you knew what you were doin when you were…you know.”

Dean blinked.  “…Yeah, I did,” he said, eventually.  He put a hand on Sam’s hip.  “You mad at me?”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “Should I be?”

“No.”  Dean’s voice was adamant. 

“Why not?” Sam asked him.

Dean sighed.  “Because no girl is ever going to make a difference to you, Sammy.  It’s like…there’s them…and then there’s you.  It’s like you’re in one room and they’re in another.”

Sam thought about this.  “So sometimes you’re gonna visit that other room, is that what you’re sayin… Dean?”

“Well…maybe…” Dean said, uncomfortably.  “Look, Sammy, I’m a red blooded American boy.  Okay?  And you know what girls are like…around me…it’s insane, I mean, it’s like walkin through a candy store all the time.  And sometimes…you just wanna taste.  You know?”

“So you wanna taste.”  Sam said.

“Well…yeah,” Dean replied.  “Sometimes.  Look, it’s natural, Sammy, don’t you see?”

“Uh huh.”   Sam was quiet.

Dean shifted, uncomfortably.  “Look Sammy,” he said.  “This thing that’s happened…between you ‘n’ me…it’s...changed things…I get it.  But if I start ignoring girls altogether, that’s goin to look weird, okay?  For one thing, Dad’s for sure goin to notice.  He’s already kinda worried about me…with you, I mean, I c’n see that.  I don’t want to give him any more ideas than he’s got, already.”

Their dad.  Sure.  That was an excuse.  “So you’re not gonna ignore them,” Sam said.  “The girls.”

“Well…no,” Dean said, with difficulty.  “I _liked_ dating that girl, Sammy.  It made me feel good.  Like a normal guy, for once.  I’d like to be able to do that again, sometime.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean was blushing again, his face red.  “So what about me?” Sam asked him.

“Well you’re…” Dean paused.  “You’re the…one I come back to, Sammy.  You’re like…my person.  Who I come home to, understand?”  He was quiet. 

Then said, in lower tone, “You’re the one who’s always there for me.”

“Always there for you,” Sam repeated.  That sounded awfully convenient.  “Always waitin for you, you mean?  To come home?”

“No,” Dean answered quietly.  “Not exactly.  I meant that…you’re always there, for me, Sammy.  In my mind.”

They were both silent.

“…So you just expect me to sit at home, then,” Sam said.  “While you’re out datin girls.”

Dean smiled at him, suddenly.  He rubbed his hand on Sam’s hip.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I guess I do.  You’ll be waitin at home.”  He looked pretty happy with that thought, Sam saw.  Sam was annoyed with him.

“So what’m _I_ supposed to do then?” he asked snappishly.  “Well I’m… _waitin_ for you.”

Dean, smiling.  “You’re not goin to do _anythin,_ Sammy.  But sit there.  Thinkin about me.  Thinkin about what I’m gonna do…when I get back to you.”

Sam felt a bolt of pleasure run through him.  His lips parted involuntarily.  Dean noticed, Sam saw, his eyes darkening. 

“So I’m gonna…just sit there,” Sam said.  “Thinkin about you,”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Looked at him.  They stared at each other for a moment.  Then Dean asked softly, “`N’ what’re you gonna…want to do, Sammy…while you’re thinkin about me?”

Sam’s breath was speeding up.  All those hours, those days he’d spent already, thinking about Dean, Dean kissing him, Dean doing things to him, Dean’s hands on his body.  “I’m gonna want to jack off,” he whispered.  Dean’s eyes, darkening.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Smiling.  Then, more softly, “But you’re not gonna...right Sammy?”  He put his hand on Sam’s cock, patted it.  Sam swallowed.  “You’re not gonna,” Dean said, “because you know you’re not allowed.” 

Sam felt himself hardening again (unbelievable).  “I’m gonna want to so bad,” he whispered. 

Dean leaned over, began kissing him again.  “You’re gonna want to,” he said.  Kissed him.  “But you won’t.”  Kissed him.  “Because you know I’m gonna ask you what you were doin, when I get back.  `N’ you’re not gonna lie to me, are you?”  His voice, murmuring “…And what am I gonna do to you, Sammy…if you tell me that you did?”  Kissing Sam, again.

“You’re gonna spank me,” Sam whispered.  He was shuddering.  Felt Dean smile against his mouth.  “Yeah,” he whispered back.  “I’m gonna spank your little wrigglin ass.”

Sam was nuzzling into Dean’s mouth.  He put his tongue between Dean’s lips, shuddering.  Asked, “`N’ what’re you gonna do to me…after that?”

Dean’s hand, lightly rubbing his cock.  “And then…I’m goin to do everythin to you,” Dean said.  He was kissing him again, kissing Sam’s mouth, his lips hard on Sam’s mouth.  “Everythin,” he muttered.  “…that I’d do with any girl.”

Sam turned onto his side.  His hands were on Dean’s face, holding him.  He was kissing Dean, pressing his cock against Dean’s hard belly, his tongue in Dean’s mouth.  He was breathless, his whole body tingling, every molecule focused hungrily on Dean.  “You gonna fuck me like a girl, Dean?” he whispered.

Dean was motionless.  Sam pushed his cock into Dean’s groin.  He felt him, rigidly hard.  “You ever think about that Dean?” Sam whispered to him.  “Fuckin me?”  He put his lips on Dean’s throat, kissed him there.  Felt Dean swallow.

“You been thinkin about that?” Sam whispered to him.  He was rubbing himself against Dean, his skin blazing, his body on fire, abandoned.  He didn’t know himself, anymore.  

Dean had gripped Sam’s upper arms.  Suddenly he rolled on top of Sam, pressing him down into the bed.  Bent his head, seeking Sam’s lips.  Kissed him, biting Sam’s lips suddenly.  Sam gasped.  “Yeah,” Dean answered, roughly.  “I’ve been thinkin about that.”

Sam arched himself up, shuddering.  “…Thinkin about how it would feel…” he whispered.  

Dean’s mouth came down on him hard, biting Sam’s lips, sucking on them.  “Jesus Sammy,” he muttered.  “Don’t tease me.”  He kissed Sam again, driving his cock into Sam’s groin.

Sam arched against him, moaning, rocking his hips.   Dean, Dean’s hard mouth, on him. 

Dean’s warm mouth on him, the way it had felt, Dean’s tongue stroking, sucking on Sam’s cock. 

Sending him to the moon.  Dean hadn’t hesitated at all.  Sam thought about this.  “You put your mouth on that girl, Dean?” he asked. 

Dean was kissing Sam over and over, like he wanted to devour him.  “Yeah,” he answered, absently.  Sam went cold.  He drew back.  “You did?”

Dean opened his eyes.  “Yeah,” he said, slowly.  Looked at Sam, warily.

Sam glared at him.  “Dean!”

“What?” Dean said, defensively. 

“And she put her mouth on you?” Sam asked.

“…Yeah,” Dean said again.

“Dean!”

“What?”

Sam was upset.  “Did you fuck her?”

“No,” Dean said.  He was starting to look annoyed.  “Feel better now, Sammy?”

Sam did, actually.  Sort of.  Not that he was telling Dean that.  “No,” he said.  “You’re still a pig.” Sam wanted Dean off him, suddenly.  He shoved at Dean’s shoulders.

Dean glared back.  Then he suddenly gripped Sam’s face in both hands, his fingers like steel.  Sam froze.  Dean was frighteningly strong. 

“Don’t call me names,” Dean said.  “I’m not gonna take that from you, Sammy, you hear me?  And I’m not apologizin for what happened. “

“Why not?” Sam snapped.  “You don’t think I deserve an apology?”

Dean’s lips were set in a thin line.  “It’s not that,” he answered.  He levered himself off Sam, wincing.  Lay down beside him again.  Then he reached out a hand to touch Sam’s face.  Sam jerked his head away.

Dean dropped his hand.  He stared at Sam.  Said, “…You ’n’ me…we’ve both figured out we want this thing we’re doin, Sammy.  And we’re doin it.  And you’re first with me, always, you know that.  You’ve been that for my whole life.”  He paused again.  Then continued.   “But you’ve gotta let me…be a normal guy sometimes.  Without feelin like I’m doin you wrong.”  Looked at Sam.  “I _need_ you, to let me…do that sometimes.  Understand?”

Sam watched him, silent.

Dean reached out, stroked Sam’s hair.  He leaned forward, kissed Sam on the forehead.  Kissed his lips.  Sam’s eyes closed, in spite of himself.  Dean’s mouth, kissing him, like he’d been dreaming of for months.  “Sammy,” Dean said.  “I need this from you.  Please.”

Sam opened his eyes.  “You need a lot from me,” he said.

Dean raised his head.  He nodded, looking at Sam.  “Yeah,” he said.  Didn’t say anything more.

Sam considered him.  “So I guess that goes both ways then,” he said.

Dean looked confused.  “What?”

“If you get to go with girls sometimes, then so do I,” Sam said.

Dean looked at him.  _“What?”_

“I get to go with a girl too,” Sam said.  “When I want to.”

Dean was glaring at him.  “Is there a girl I should know about, Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “No,” he said.  “Not right now, Jesus, Dean.   Where’d I even have the chance to meet one, anyway?  But there might be one, later on.  So I’d get to go with her too, I guess.  If I wanted.”  He looked at Dean.  “Am I right?”

Dean’s expression was tight.  “No,” he said.

“Whaddaya mean, _no?”_ Sam asked him. 

“I mean, no,” Dean said briefly.  “You’re not allowed.”

Not allowed.  “That’s ridiculous,” Sam said.

“No it’s not,” Dean said.

“That’s not fair,” Sam said.

“Too bad,” Dean replied.

“So…you’re sayin…you get to go with girls…sometimes…but not me,” Sam said.

“Yup,” Dean said.  “That’s right.”

Sam stared at him, wordless.  “I don’t know what to say to you,” he said, eventually.

Dean shrugged.  “You don’t have to say anythin,” he replied.  Met Sam’s eyes.  “You just have to follow the rules.”

Dean’s eyes, on him.  Watching Sam, for his reaction.  “And what if I don’t?” Sam asked him.

Dean’s eyes were cold.  “You don’t want to find out,” he said.

Sam was silent, looking at his brother.  What a bully.  He decided to try something else on, for size.  “So…if I don’t get to go out with a girl then…what about a guy, Dean?   You goin to allow that?”

Dean stared at him, shocked. 

Sam smiled.

Dean stared.  Then he grabbed Sam’s shoulders.  Shook him, hard.  Sam’s head rocked back.  “Hey!”

Dean’s eyes were blazing.  “You don’t ever say that, Sammy.  Not even to joke about it.  Got it?”

Sam smiled at him.  This was kind of fun.  “Who said I was jokin?”

Dean slapped him sharply.  “ _Ow!_   Hey!”  Sam hand went to his cheek, shocked.  “Dean!”

Dean’s hands were back on his shoulders, his fingers digging in, painfully.  His face was cold and set, except for his blazing eyes.  “You take that back, Sammy,” he said.  “Take it back.”

Sam was in tears now.  “I can’t believe you hit me,” he said.

Dean’s expression didn’t change.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “Now take it back.”

“I take it back,” Sam whispered.  He blinked.  Tears ran down his cheeks.

Dean’s expression softened.  He leaned forward, kissed Sam on his stinging cheek.  “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said.

“I _was_ just jokin, Dean,” Sam whispered.

“I know,” Dean said.  “But don’t, don’t do that, Sammy.  Don’t joke with me about that.  Girls…okay, I c'n see that.  When you’re older, I mean.  And…maybe I’ll allow it.  I don’t know, yet, and don’t push me.  But guys…that’s never gonna happen Sammy.  I catch you lookin at another guy the way you look at me and I’m lockin you up.  And _they’re_ gonna be dead.  So you think about that.”

“…You serious?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“You’re frightenin me,” Sam said.

“Good,” Dean said.  “Then you’ll mind what I say.”

“You’re a fuckin psycho,” Sam whispered. 

Dean smiled, suddenly.  “Well I wasn’t raised to be a wuss,” he said.  He stopped smiling.  “And neither were you.  You c’n hit me, if you want.”

Sam stared.  “What?”

Dean looked at him steadily.  “You c’n hit me,” he said.  “I shouldn’t’ve hit you in the face, like that.  I lost control.  So you c’n hit me back.”  He set his jaw.

Sam looked at him.  “No,” he said eventually.  “I’m not hittin you Dean.  You’ve been hurt enough today.”

Dean’s expression changed.

Sam saw that shattered look come back into his brother’s eyes.  He leaned forward, kissed Dean softly on the mouth.  “Don’t worry, Dean.  I’ll do what you say.”

Dean’s eyes had closed.  “No more talk about anyone else,” he muttered.

“No,” Sam said agreeably.  He was kissing Dean, again.  “Just you, like always.”

Dean’s lips had softened, parted.  His eyes were closed, on his face an intent, inward expression, like Sam’s kisses were changing something deep inside him.  Sam loved seeing that expression on Dean’s face.

But he had to know. 

“Did it feel good, her mouth on you?” Sam whispered to him.

“…Yeah,” Dean whispered back. 

Sam paused.  Then he was very gently urging Dean to turn over, to lie on his back.  Dean winced.  “Ouch, Sammy.”  But he allowed Sam to turn him over.

Sam knelt up on the bed.  He put his hands on the waistband of Dean’s sweats, tugged gently.  “Lift up.”

Dean looked at him.  “Why?”

Sam looked back.  “Because I’m doin that to you, now.  So lift up.”

Dean stared.  Then he lifted his hips up from the bed, groaning.  “Ow –shit Sammy, hurry up.  This hurts.”

Sam pulled Dean’s sweatpants down, exposing him.  Dean settled himself carefully back down on the bed.  His cock was reddened, hard, standing up against his flat belly.  Sam reached out a hand, stroked it.  Dean jerked.  “Jesus, Sammy.” he said.  But he didn’t protest further.

Sam clambered on top of him, getting up on his hands and knees.  He straddled Dean’s hips, stared down at his cock, thoughtfully.

“…Well?”

Sam glanced up.  Dean was staring at him.  He looked nervous.  Sam smiled.  “Lie your head back,” he said.  Dean stared at him a moment longer, then leaned his head back on the pillow.  He was tense, Sam saw, breathing shallowly.

Sam considered his position, then wriggled himself down so he that was crouched on top of Dean’s thighs.  Adjusted himself more comfortably.  Leaned over Dean.  Glanced up briefly again.  “Ready?”

Dean was staring rigidly at the ceiling.  “Fuck, Sammy, do it if you’re gonna do it.  You’re torturin me here.”

Sam felt laughter rising.  Then he bent his head and delicately licked Dean’s cock, running his tongue in a smooth glide from the base of Dean’s cock to its tip.

Dean had arched his back.  “Ohmigod… _shit!”_ he gasped.

Sam was smiling.  He made sure his tongue was good and wet.  Then leaned over and licked Dean, again.

“Fuck…Sammy,” Dean whispered.  His eyes were tightly closed.  Sam observed his cock, its blunt, satiny head with the small dark slit in the centre.  A bead of clear liquid had risen, sitting glimmering on the top of that slit.  Sam dipped his head, licked it off.  Heard Dean’s breath hiss.  Then Sam opened his mouth, fitting it delicately over the tip of Dean’s cock.  He sucked gently.  Heard Dean make a stifled sound.  Sam curved his tongue around the bulbous tip of Dean’s cock, the same way Dean had done to him.  Sucked on him, harder.  He closed his mouth around the tip of Dean’s cock like a hand.  Pulled back, sucking.

Dean moaned.

Sam listened to that sound, like rough velvet, his brother moaning under his mouth.  He sat up.  “Like that?”  He looked at Dean.

Dean glanced at him, agonized.  “Jesus, Sammy, what you stoppin for?” he said, with difficulty.  “Keep goin.”

Sam bent his head, took Dean’s cock between his lips again.  Then he opened his mouth, opened his throat, took Dean’s cock deep into his mouth, the way Dean had done with him.  Sucked down hard, feeling the tip of Dean’s cock hitting the roof of his mouth.

Dean, moaning.  Sam felt one of his brother’s hands, clutching at his hair.   Dean was rocking his hips, thrusting up into Sam’s mouth. 

Sam kept sucking on him, hard.  He was moving his head back and forth, feeling the slide of Dean’s cock in his mouth.  Dean moaning.

Sam felt Dean’s cock start to pulse under his tongue.  Dean was writhing, moving his hips, shuddering.  His hand, pulling on Sam’s hair. 

“I’m gonna come Sammy,” Dean gasped.  Pulled hard on Sam’s hair.  “Let me up.” 

Sam heard him vaguely.  He was crouched over Dean’s body, feeling his brother’s body bucking under him, sucking, feeding on Dean’s cock, feeling its hard length filling his mouth, his jaw stretched painfully to accommodate it, tasting the salty fluid on his tongue.  He kept going, not responding to Dean’s words. 

Dean, pulling on his hair.  “Sammy,” he gasped.  “Let go.”

Sammy glanced up without stopping.  What was Dean going on about?

Dean was staring at him, flushed.  “Let me come on you,” he whispered.  “I wanna see my come, on your face.”

Sam’s eyes widened.  Then he bent his head again.  His lips, his tongue, the back of his mouth, all closed around Dean’s silky cock, sucking on him, Dean arching against him, driving his cock deep into Sam’s mouth.  Sam felt Dean's cock expand impossibly within his mouth, pulsing.   _“Sammy,”_ Dean whispered.  His hand, pulling on Sam’s hair again.

Sam opened his mouth, releasing Dean’s cock.  He put his face close to it, gasping for breath.  Felt his brother’s hard, wet cock, pulsing against his cheek.  He lifted his face up, letting the warm fluid spurt onto his face, letting Dean see him, doing this.  Closed his eyes, the sticky, warm fluid hitting his eyelids, his cheeks.  Wet on his face, like rain.

Sam was still, holding his face up.  His lips were sore.  He heard Dean’s laboured breathing, above him.  He kept his eyes closed.

Then his brother’s hand, on his back.  “C’mere Sammy.”  Dean’s hand, gently urging Sam up.  Sam crawled up beside him and flopped down, exhausted.  He turned to face Dean, his eyes still closed, the fluid sticky on his face, cooling.

Dean was pulling his sweats back up, his movements gingerly, swearing softly under his breath.  Then he was still.  But Sam could sense him, Dean’s eyes on his face.  Sam didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move.  He lay quietly, under Dean’s gaze.

Then Dean’s thumb, gently rubbing his eyelids.  “Open your eyes Sammy.”  His voice a soft murmur.  Sam opened his eyes.

Dean, looking at him tenderly.  His fingers on Sam’s face, gently touching Sam’s cheek, the skin sticky with come  _(his sore cheek, the one Dean had slapped/he wasn't going to think about that)._

“I like you like this,” Dean murmured.  His fingers, lightly stroking Sam’s cheek, the green eyes, gazing at him.

“What,” Sam muttered.  “You mean marked?”  Saw Dean’s eyes darken again. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He smiled slightly.  “Marked with my come.  It looks good on you, Sammy.”

Sam, facing Dean silently.  Dean's eyes on him, their dark, deep green, the dark forest of his brother’s eyes, the long shadowed green miles in those eyes.

Dean, taking in the sight of Sam lying on the bed, his half naked body, his face turned up towards Dean like an offering.

Taking him in.

“How’d you like that?” Sam asked him.  He licked his lips experimentally.  They felt dry.  His jaw was sore.  Stretched.  How had he done?  He wanted to know.  He was ready for some compliments, by now.

Dean’s eyes closed partially.  “It was awesome.  Your mouth, Sammy, Jesus.  I was dyin.”

Sam smiled, at this.  “…Felt good, my mouth on you?” he whispered.

Dean’s eyes, on him.  “Yeah,” he answered, softly.  “Felt real good.”

“You’ll remember _that_ now?” Sam asked him.

Dean looked at him gravely.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’ll remember that forever.”

“I’m in your mind,” Sam said.

Dean, looking at him.  “Yeah,” he said quietly.  “You are.”

Sam smiled.  Then said, “Why don’t you sleep now Dean?  Have your nap, like you wanted.”

Dean smiled back.  “Okay.  You’ll stay here?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Just let me clean myself up first, okay?”

Dean paused.  Sam could see him thinking about this.

Sam scowled.

Dean grinned at him, nodded.  “Sure,” he said, generously.

Sam rolled his eyes.  Then he got up, went to the bathroom.  Closed the door.

“What’re you doin?” Dean called.

“Takin a _whizz,_ Dean, God,” Sam called back through the door.  “Relax, already.”  He relieved himself, flushed, washed his hands at the sink.  Found a washcloth, ran it under the tap.  Washed his face.  Looked up at his reflection in the rusty mirror.

A boy’s face, thin, serious.  Solemn dark eyes, their colour uncertain, always changing with the light, sometimes gray, sometimes brown, sometimes a golden-green.  His sharply angled brows (“Stop _frownin,_ Sammy,” his dad would say to Sam all the time…like _he_ was such a ray of light, himself).  Sam’s dark brown hair, flopping into his eyes (“Get a _haircut,_ Jesus, Sammy,” his dad saying.  But Sam hated getting his hair cut and always put it off as long as possible, standing up to his dad’s snarky remarks.  And Dean, agreeing with Sam, surprisingly, backing Sam up to their dad…surprising because Dean kept his own hair so short).  Sam’s long, thin mouth (sore now, the lips chapped).  His smooth cheeks, still not ready to shave.

Sam observed his naked shoulders, his torso.  A thin chest, with only a few downy hairs, starting.  His slight frame, lightly muscled, his pale skin, a mole here and there (Dean saying he liked Sam’s skin…why was that?  What was so special about it?)

Sam looked at his unremarkable, thirteen year old self. 

He didn’t look anything like Dean.  Or like his dad, really, in spite of what his dad had said.  His dad was a strongly built, good looking man even if he was a miserable son of a bitch.  And Dean…Dean was something else altogether.  Dean…with his sharp, almost otherworldly beauty that made Sam’s stomach hurt, sometimes, just looking at him.

But Sam was…kind of ordinary.  (Except for his brains, he was smarter than most people, he recognized that about himself, and he wasn’t afraid to show it either, one of the many things that drove his dad nuts).

But otherwise, kind of ordinary looking.   Slight.  Quiet.  A regular, thirteen year old kid.

Dean, his eyes blazing.   Watching Sam, so possessively.   So closely.

What exactly was Dean seeing?

Sam gazed at himself thoughtfully in the mirror.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice.  “You drown in there?”

Sam left the bathroom, looked through the bedroom's doorway.  Dean was watching him from the bed.  Sam went over to stand beside him. 

Dean's eyes on him, brightening.  “Hey SammySam,” he said, softly. 

Sam frowned back, perplexed.  “Dean…” he stopped.

“Yeah?”

“What’re you lookin at, when you’re lookin at me?” Sam asked him.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“What do you see, Dean?” Sam asked.  “When you’re lookin at me?”

“I see you,” Dean said, smiling.

Sam rolled his eyes.  _“That’s_ helpful,” he said.  “Seriously, Dean.  What do you see?”

“You,” Dean said again.  He wasn’t smiling now.  “That’s what I said.  Isn’t that enough?”

“Is it?” Sam asked, watching him. 

Dean looked back.  “I see everythin, Sammy,” he said, eventually.  “When I look at you I see…everythin.” He was quiet. Then asked, “Is _that_ enough for you?”

Tears were in Sam's eyes again (God, Dean was making him cry like a baby, today).  “Yeah,” he said, softly.  “That’s enough.”

Dean smiled, reached out a hand.  “Come lie down now,” he said.  “Lemme take a nap beside you, like I was plannin to, before.”

Sam blinked the tears away.  Then he reached over, picked up his library book.  Lay back down on the bed, arranging himself beside Dean.  “Okay,” he said.  He opened his book.

Dean’s arm, settling heavy on his waist.  Dean was moving himself around, finding a comfortable position.  “What you readin?” he asked, absently.

“Lord of the Rings,” Sam said.  “Second book, The Two Towers.” 

“I thought you read that whole series already,” Dean said.

“I did,” Sam answered.  “But I like it, so’m readin it again.”

“Why’d anyone want to read a book twice?” Dean asked him.

“Same reason why people’d read it in the first place,” Sam said.  “A love of readin.  Not that you’d know anythin about _that,_ of course.”

“Snot,” Dean said.

“Neanderthal,” Sam answered.

“Bitch,” Dean said.

Sam snorted.  “Jerk,” he answered.

They grinned at each other.

Then Dean leaned up, kissed Sam’s face.  “Okay nerdboy,” he said.  “Read away.  I’m sleepin.”

Sam had turned his face into the kiss, involuntarily.  He closed his eyes.  He felt a pressure around his heart, like a tight band.  Dean.

“Okay,” he answered softly.  Dean settled down beside him, again.

Then Dean’s breaths, slowing.

His brother was sleeping.

Sam lay beside Dean quietly, reading, listening to the wind outside the cabin, rustling through the tall trees.

Outside, the sun shining above the dark forest, the bright day, passing.


	21. Chapter 21

Dean was thirteen when he started drinking. 

Sneaking sips of his dad’s whiskey.  The occasional beer.  He figured his dad noticed (his dad was as sensitive to the availability of alcohol as a plant to light), but didn’t say anything as long as Dean didn’t overdo it (I mean, what _could_ his dad say, really, what with him and Bobby calling whiskey `Hunter’s Helper.’)

So Dean started drinking too, cautiously for the most part, and his dad allowed it.  He never let himself get drunk (not after that first time, when he got wasted by accident…around Sammy because he was _always_ around Sammy…and his dad noticed and Dean caught a pretty bad beating, for that).

And eventually his dad started offering Dean a beer whenever _he_ was drinking (like, whenever he was home).  That must have been around the time he and Dean had had their (groan) hilarious sex-ed chat and he’d given Dean those condoms.  He never went so far as pouring Dean a drink from the Dewars bottle.  But Dean continued to help himself to the occasional discreet shot and his dad never said anything.  And the fake IDs his dad set him up with for their hunts (and the pool hustling jaunts) started to come in handy too, at the right kind of bar or corner store.

Sammy didn’t like Dean drinking, Dean knew (Sammy had made that pretty clear, with Dean constantly having to reassure him).  But Dean could see it in his eyes, that he was terrified Dean would get like their dad.  So Dean did keep his drinking moderate, for that reason.

But he loved drinking. 

The immediate hit of the alcohol, like a flower opening in his brain.  The loosening in his blood and that slight, pleasant numbness, an easing of pressure throughout his body.   The sense of wellbeing that came with that. 

That liquid opening of his closed, guarded self.  Dean loved it.

Drinking.  He got it, alright.  Understood where his dad was coming from alright, even though he’d never go there, himself (not with Sammy’s eyes on him, like they were).

But the experience of drinking…that state of mind…it was, truly…awesome.

Dean didn’t have much use for drugs.  Never went there.  Not that it wouldn’t have been easy to.  The resident dealers and users at Dean’s various schools, they always found Dean soon enough, must have figured him a natural fit for their little subworlds as soon as they saw him.  And he would visit his classmates’ homes, sometimes, go to their parties…his face, it was welcome most places (by the kids that is, not their parents...although Dean occasionally got the feeling that _some_ of those, and not just the moms either…if he showed up by himself, without the inconvenient presence of their offspring, they’d welcome him in, sure).   

So yeah, he’d had his opportunities to hang out in someone’s basement, or drop by a field party.  A chance to sample the drugs on offer, along with the local cuties.  And he _would_ go out, sometimes (I mean, what the hell…he _was_ a teenager).   Sneak out of their motel room sometimes, after Sammy was in bed, on the nights their dad was away.  Unfortunately Sammy _never_ slept through those times –he would always wake up and get mad at Dean, disregarding the fact that Dean was never gone for more than a couple of hours (and he’d bitch something fierce, did Sammy ever have a mouth on him, he could nag like a wife).  But he never told.  And it’s not like Dean did it very often, anyway.

It wasn’t like Dean would ever do drugs.  Booze was his poison.  And he never got friendly with any of the girls either (although boy did he ever get checked out, sometimes he felt like he could just crook a finger and every girl in his vicinity would pile on top of him).  Robin had been the first one to cross that invisible line between Dean and other kids his age, and that had been different, he’d been a different person then, those weeks at Sonny’s.  On a break from himself and his regular life, even if he hadn’t asked for that.

And anyway, those conventional highschool…adventures…they just weren’t all that interesting.  Not in comparison to a hunt (I mean, killing secret monsters, how much more adrenaline cool could you get than that?).  And then there was his dad and Sammy.  Next to them and what they were to Dean (and what Dean was to _them,_ what Dean was to his dad and his brother, lifegiving), everyone else was simply pale.  Shadowy.  Barely there.  Either a convenience, useful for various reasons, or an inconvenience, a lump, annoyingly in the way.  Other people, meaning anyone _not_ his dad or Sammy (and okay, Bobby too), they were merely vics, rescue missions, or maybe…test material…to be tried out, like something on vacation.   In any case, not _real_ to Dean like his family was.  Not part of his real life. 

His dad.  Hunting with him.  Training with him.  His place as his dad’s partner and the pride and pain of that.  And Sammy, the oxygen presence of Sammy and everything that meant. 

 _Those_ were the things that counted. 

And the drinking…that was kind of an…enhancement to those things, a reward for growing up, like Dean’s ability to drive, finally (Dean loved driving just as much as drinking, but never together, of course).

Drinking.  That liquid fire.  Hunter’s Helper.

That awesome feeling, like nothing else.

That buzzing, blissed out state of mind, like his mind was suddenly opened to life. 

Life in a glass.  Drinking.  Dean did love it, no doubt.  But he was careful (because of Sammy).

Sammy was Dean's protection from drinking…from Dean going the way of their dad...and Sammy _knew_ he was, too (and boy did he ever take that job seriously…those eyes that mouth, Sammy could be like a sharp tongued puppy dog…a lethal combination). 

And eventually protecting Dean in another way, that neither of them expected. 

That summer, when Sammy was thirteen.

It was like Dean was drunk, for most of that summer, the summer his brother was thirteen.

Discovering Sammy, the new territory of Sammy’s body.  Sammy, opening up to Dean like a flower. 

Drunk on Sammy, Sammy’s skin, his mouth, his floppy hair, his warm silky body.  His voice (moaning).  His wide puppy eyes, fixed on Dean.  His hands, with their burning touch on Dean’s body.  His slender arms (and legs), curled around Dean.  His cock, like a brand new toy.  His round, tight little ass.

Sammy.

It was like Dean discovering drinking, all over again.  Except this time, he got as drunk as he wanted.  And no hangover. 

That summer, with their family crashed at his dad’s friend’s cabin, Dean waking up with Sammy in the mornings, their dad snoring loudly from the other room.

Turning to Sammy in the bed they shared, taking in the sight of his brother sleeping, in the dim green forest light of their bedroom. 

His brother’s bare, smooth skin, softly gleaming (Sammy slept naked now, Dean didn’t allow him to wear pajamas to bed anymore, he’d latch the door to their bedroom at night and those jammies would come off).

Stroking Sammy’s skin, rubbing his palm gently over Sammy’s arms and legs, his chest, his back, Sammy waking up slowly, grumbling (Sammy always grouchy upon waking, adorable).  Rubbing Sammy’s butt, turning him over carefully, stroking his cock. 

Sammy blinking up at him now, moaning softly, raising his mouth to Dean’s, his cock hard under Dean’s hand.

Dean leaning over him, kissing Sammy’s mouth, the sour tang of morning breath, both of them laughing, groaning (they didn’t care). 

Sammy’s soft, silky mouth, hungry.  His wet little tongue, Sammy putting that tongue into Dean’s mouth.  His cock, thrusting, spurting into Dean’s hand (or Dean’s mouth, Dean feeding on Sammy’s satiny cock, devouring him, drinking Sammy down like whiskey).

And Dean kissing him, helpless, unable to stop with Sammy, Sammy under his mouth, pressing endless kisses all over Sammy’s body, his belly, his nipples (like satin buttons, Sammy tossing, moaning under Dean’s mouth), Dean kissing Sammy’s legs, between his legs, kissing his feet even, kissing every inch of him, turning him over, kissing his back, his butt, parting the round little cheeks of Sammy’s butt, putting his face into the warm crease there, kissing Sammy’s tight furled little asshole, the velvet skin, Sammy gasping.

And Dean kissing him, kissing him, covering the landscape of Sammy’s body, exploring his brother with his lips, hands and tongue.  The feel, the taste, the smell of Sammy, the sight of him, writhing under Dean’s touch.  The dark rub of Sammy’s voice (but muffled, Dean covering Sammy’s mouth with his hand if he got too loud).  The intoxicating…nearness of Sammy.  His availability.

Sammy near to hand.  Like the best drink in the world.

There for the taking. 

It was truly awesome.

Dean and Sammy were curled up together on the bed, both of them sticky with sweat and come, Sammy’s hand casually on Dean’s cock, where he’d just finished jacking him off.  Dean lying heavily on top of him, his face buried against Sammy’s throat. 

Sammy’s voice.  “Dean, I need to use the bathroom.”

Dean wasn’t ready to move yet.  He was comfortable.  “Mmph.”

Sammy twisted restlessly under him.  “C’mon Dean, lemme up.”

Dean lying still.  Not motivated to move an inch.

Sammy waited, quiet.  Then he yanked on Dean’s cock.

Dean’s head shot up.  “Hey!”

Sammy was giggling.  He yanked on Dean’s cock again.  “Lemme up, Dean!”

Dean moved himself out of reach, then grabbed Sammy and pinned him down on the bed.   “Little brat!”

Sammy was struggling to get away, giggling.  He poked Dean in the ribs.  “C’mon Dean, I have to pee.  You want me to do it here?”

Dean let go of him.  “Fine.  But hurry back.”  Sammy started to clamber over him.  Dean smacked him sharply on the butt.

“Ow!” Sammy’s hand went protectively to his butt.  He glared at Dean indignantly.  “What was _that_ for?  Jeez!”

“Take your hand away,” Dean said.

Sammy stared at him. 

Dean looked back.  “Take your hand away, Sammy,” he repeated.   He saw Sammy swallow.  Then Sammy slowly moved his hand away from his butt.

Dean smacked him again.  And then again, quite hard, Sammy gasping. 

“What was that for, Sammy?” Dean asked him. 

“Ouch,” Sammy whispered.  He stared at Dean wide eyed.  Dean raised his hand, held it warningly over Sammy’s butt.  “Well?” he asked.  “What’d you get _that_ for, Sammy?”

“…For bein a brat,” Sammy said.  He looked at Dean warily.

Dean smiled at him.  “That’s right.  `N’ that’s what you’re gettin the next time too, so you just think about that whenever you feel like actin up.”

“I just wanted to go to the bathroom,” Sammy muttered resentfully.  But he’d held himself still, Dean noticed, like he was waiting for Dean’s permission to move.  Dean placed his hand on Sammy’s butt, rubbing it.  Sammy’s eyes closed.  “Go on then,” Dean said softly.  He kept rubbing Sammy's butt, massaging it now.  Sammy had arched himself under Dean’s hand.  His lips were parted.  He was hardening again, Dean saw.  “Kiss me,” Dean whispered. 

Sammy dipped his head, found Dean’s mouth.  Kissed him thoroughly, slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  Dean hummed at the sensation, Sammy’s hot little tongue, Jesus.  Then patted his butt gently.  “Go on.”

Sammy broke their kiss, scrambled off the bed.  He picked up his pajama bottoms from the floor where they’d been left last night and pulled them on, silently.  Unlatched the bedroom door and left the room, briefly glancing over his shoulder at Dean. 

Dean lay back, laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.  He wasn’t ready to get up yet.  He thought pleasurably of Sammy returning shortly and coming to lie down, on top of him.  He would kiss Sammy again, run his hands over Sammy’s creamy skin.  Kiss Sammy’s throat, lick his nipples.  His brother moaning, wriggling deliciously under Dean’s touch.  Sammy’s mouth, raised pleadingly to Dean.   Those big eyes.

Sammy.

God, he could do this all day.

His dad’s voice, from the other room.  “Dean?  You up?”

Dean sighed.  “Yeah, Dad?”

“I could use a coffee.”  His dad’s voice, hoarse with phlegm.  “And get me a couple of aspirin willya?  Got a bitch of a headache.”

“Okay.”  Dean got up, pulled on a pair of sweats.  Walked into the other room, looked down at his dad, stirring blearily on the couch.  “You want breakfast?”

“Nah, not yet.”  His dad sat up carefully.  Held his head.  “Shit.”

“Bad one?” Dean asked, unsympathetically.

“Yeah.  But it’ll pass.  Get yourself and Sammy somethin to eat, and then we’re goin out to the shootin range.  You haven’t practiced since we got here.  And I’m thinkin you didn’t get the chance while you were away from us either.  Am I right?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered.  The bathroom door was open, Sammy standing there.  Dean looked at him, shrugged.  Fun was over, for the moment.

But there were plenty of other opportunities.

Their dad wasn’t around that much, that summer.

After they’d worked out their plan to trap and kill the spirit, a plan cooked up between him and their dad (and Sammy, surprisingly), their dad’s friend Maurice (who turned out to be a lean, cool eyed, quiet spoken man in his thirties, not what Dean was expecting) and Maurice’s crazy, long legged sister Manon (who was actually kind of hot, for an older chick), there wasn’t much to do, really, other than the training.  And so their dad relaxed, kind of (for him).  He’d spend hours on the lake, fishing, sometimes with Maurice, sometimes with Dean (Dean glad of these times with his dad, even though he found the fishing boring as death).  And he’d take off for hours during the day too, leaving Dean and Sammy at the cabin, sometimes calling in to say he wouldn’t be home that night (Sammy thought him and Manon were having a thing).  He re-stocked their supply of cash too, hitting bars strategically around the state, hustling pool (no one could touch their dad for this – he could have made a career of it, easy).  So that took him away as well.

So it looked like Dean and Sammy really were on vacation.  Nothing to do but train and wait for the day of the hunt to come around.

Although the training was important  -Dean needed to be sharp, for what he had to do.  And he was motivated too, to kill that spirit, after what he’d seen that first night they’d been here, the night of the twenty-first.  So he pushed himself hard, after he recovered from his dad’s beating.  Pushed Sammy too, because that was their agreement.  And he liked training with Sammy.

Especially now.

Sammy and him, running, racing each other down the road leading from the cabin to the highway, a two track dirt path, deep woods on either side. 

Sammy running, fleet as a deer.   He was really fast now.  He passed Dean, throwing a grin at him over his shoulder.   

Dean glared at him.  Sped up, his eyes fixed on Sammy.  Sammy glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes widening as he saw Dean’s expression.   He kept running, like prey now, fearfully striving, staying ahead of Dean by no more than a hand’s breadth.  Dean pursued him silently.

Sammy was within reach.  Dean grabbed a handful of shirt, yanked back, pulling Sammy up short, his brother stumbling.    _“Dean!”_   Sammy was laughing, breathlessly.   Dean reeled him in, Sammy struggling.  Dean wasn’t laughing.  “I’m gonna get you Sammy, what you goin to do about it?”  Sammy stopped laughing.  His knife was in his hand like a flash, lunging.  Dean’s own knife was out, blocking Sammy just in time.  They started fighting, feinting, circling, panting for breath from the running, eyes fixed on each other.  Coming close to each other, grappling, Sammy’s slender body suddenly pressed against Dean, the flat of his knife held tight against Dean’s throat.  They both froze, staring at each other.  Then Sammy smiled.  “Got you,” he said softly.  “What are _you_ goin to do about it?”

Sammy’s body against him.  “Put your knife down, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Now.”

Sammy shook his head at him, smiling.  “That what you say to the guy with your life in his hands, Dean?”

Dean put away his own knife, his movements careful.  Then, staring at Sammy, he slowly dipped his head.  Sammy’s eyes widened. 

Dean found Sammy’s mouth, kissed him savagely, Sammy’s lips parting with a muffled sound.  He grabbed Sammy’s wrist, pulled his brother’s knife away from his throat, Sammy unresisting, pliant now.  Dean yanked the knife out of Sammy’s hand and tossed it down.  Then returned to his brother’s mouth, devouring it, gripping Sammy to him by his upper arms, Sammy pressed tight against him, his breath shuddering, the hard bulge of his cock rubbed up against Dean.  Dean hooked a leg behind Sammy’s knee and tripped him, falling with him, both of them landing on the hard sandy surface of the road.  He rolled on top of Sammy, thrusting hard between his brother’s legs, the exquisite friction of his cock against his brother’s cock, Sammy wrapping his legs around Dean’s hips, moaning.  The two of them kissing, clinging to each other, rocking. And then coming, both of them shaking with pleasure as they lay together on the dirt road, surrounded by silent woods and sky.

Then stumbling back to the cabin, leaning on each other, laughing, groaning.  Ripping off their dirty clothes the minute they got in the door, falling onto the couch together, laughing. 

Then nuzzling each other, quietly.

Eventually Dean got up, walked naked to the bathroom.  Sammy sat up.  Dean shook his head.  “Stay where you are.”  Sammy lay back down on the couch again.

Dean ran a washcloth under hot water, wiped himself down.  Then went to the bedroom, retrieved a pair of undershorts and jeans and dressed, not bothering with a shirt.  Walked back into the front room.

Sammy, looking at him from the couch.  “C’n I get up now, Dean?”

“Nah.”  Dean walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up the Dewars bottle and a glass, and brought them over to the couch.  Poured himself a healthy shot (he wasn’t bothering to be discreet about this anymore, not after that last beating and the words between him and his dad), and set the bottle down on the coffee table.  He turned to look at Sammy, the glass in his hand. 

Sammy was glaring at him.  “I want to clean up too.  I’m all sticky Dean.”

Dean smiled at him.  Then put his drink down.  “I’ll clean you up,” he said.  Walked back to the bathroom, ran the washcloth under hot water again, wrung it out.  Went to stand over Sammy, who was watching him expectantly.

Dean sat down beside him.  Then he laid the hot cloth over Sammy’s cock.  Sammy closed his eyes, sighing with pleasure.  “Mmm.”  Dean wiped him gently.  “Lift up your legs.”  Sammy raised his legs cooperatively.  Dean rubbed the washcloth between Sammy’s legs, wiping his balls carefully, swabbing under them.   Sammy’s head was tilted back against the couch, an expression of quiet enjoyment on his face.

Dean looked at him.  Then said, “Turn over.”

Sammy opened his eyes, gazed at him.  “Turn over Sammy,” Dean said softly.  “`N' get up on your hands and knees.”

Sammy blinked.  Then he slowly turned around.  Raised himself up onto his hands and knees, his round little ass turned towards Dean.  Dean rubbed the washcloth slowly over one cheek and then the other.  Then he rubbed the cloth gently into the crease between Sammy’s cheeks. 

Sammy was breathing hard.  “Dean, you’re makin me feel kind of-“

“Shh.”  Dean stroked the soft skin, cleaning it thoroughly.  Then stopped, watching his brother.  Sammy was trembling slightly but keeping himself in place, his butt turned up.  Dean looked at him.  That round little ass.  It has been on his mind.  He said to Sammy, “Put your head down.”

“What are you-“

“Shh,” Dean said again.  He reached out and pushed Sammy’s head down onto the couch.  “Keep your butt up,” he said.  Sammy let his body lean forward, resting his face against the seat of the couch, his butt now pushed high in the air.  His cheeks were fully spread, displaying his dark little asshole.  “That’s it,” Dean said.  Patted him.

Sammy was trembling.  “Dean, what are you gonna-“

“Shhh, Sammy.  You c’n speak when I say.”  Dean contemplated his brother, holding that little ass up under Dean’s gaze.  He ran his fingers lightly over the silky skin.  Felt Sammy trembling.

Dean wrapped the washcloth around the index finger of his right hand.  “I’m gonna clean you up…here.”  He put his cloth covered finger against Sammy’s asshole.  “Wipe down that little ass of yours.”

Sammy’s nervous voice.  “Dean, I dunno about-“

“-What did I say about speaking?" Dean asked him.  "You aimin for a spankin?”

Sammy bit his lip.  Then shook his head.  Dean patted him again.  “That's it.  Now let’s see about cleanin you up.”  He pushed his finger gently into Sammy’s asshole.  Sammy gasped.  Dean pushed in a little deeper, moved his finger around.  Sammy made a soft little whimpering sound.  He twitched.  “Stay still, Sammy.”  Dean put a hand on Sammy’s ass, steadying him.  Then pushed his finger in farther.  Sammy whimpered, bit his lip again. 

“How’s that feel?” Dean asked him.  “You c’n speak now.”

“It feels weird,” Sammy said.

“…Weird?”

“Yeah.”

“Not good?”

“Not really.  Is it supposed to?”

“I thought so.  That’s what the porno mags say.”  Dean pushed a little further in, the cloth tight around his finger.  Sammy shifted with discomfort.  “That cloth’s kinda rough Dean.”

“Is it?”  Dean swirled his finger around.  “Got you cleaned up good, anyways.”  He removed his finger, gave Sammy’s asshole a final wipe with the washcloth.  Looked at the glistening skin.  “All cleaned up for me.”  He bent his head, kissed the dark little pucker, put his tongue against it briefly.  Sammy gasped.  Dean licked him again, the dusky taste of Sammy going straight to his head, like whiskey.  Speaking of which-

Dean reached over and picked up his glass.   Held it over Sammy’s upturned ass and dribbled some whiskey into the crease.  Sammy yelped.  “Dean!  C’mon, what’re you-“

“Shhh, Sammy.  It’ll be fine.  I'm not gonna hurt you okay?  Just lemme do this.”  Dean bent his head and licked him.  Heard Sammy gasp, softly.  Dean smiled, then kissed him, kissed his brother there, in the soft crease of his ass.

Sammy’s ass, turned up under Dean's hands, his mouth.  Just waiting there.  Simply awesome.

Then Sammy, wriggling.  His voice.  “Dean, c’n I turn over now?”

“No.”

“But I don't-“

"It's _okay,_ Sammy, this'll be fun, I promise.  Now stay still."

"But Dean, c'n I-"

Dean sighed.  Said to Sammy, "I think you c'n shut up, again.”  He dribbled more whiskey onto him.

 _“Dean!_ That’s cold!  Can you at least-”

“Your mouth, Sammy, close it now.  No more talkin till we're done here,” Dean said distractedly.  He was looking at the amber liquid, running over his brother’s delicate skin.  Bent his head and licked it off.

Sammy’s ass, bobbing under him.  _“_ But _Dean!_   Seriously, c'n we just _-_ “

Dean smacked him sharply.  “That’s it.  You’re gettin a spankin.  How hard it’ll be is up to you.  Got that?”  Sammy turned his head, stared at him.  Dean looked back.  Eventually Sammy nodded silently.  He turned away, putting his head back down on the couch.

Dean watched him for a moment.  Sammy was being obedient now, holding himself in position, that little asshole naked under Dean’s eyes.  Dean bent and kissed it again.  He heard Sammy’s breath hiss, but his brother was otherwise silent.  Dean smiled.  Then he poured more whiskey onto him, watching it run along the crease of Sammy’s ass and pool into that little circle of dark puckered skin, like a cute little mouth.  Sammy quivered slightly as the cool alcohol dribbled over him, but kept his ass turned up.  Dean saw his ribs, heaving. 

Dean bent his head and licked him again, luxuriously, running his tongue over Sammy, tasting the whiskey mixed with the taste of Sammy, the finest taste in the world.  Sammy, like a feast spread out under him, just for Dean.  Dean leaned over and put his cheek against Sammy’s satiny lower back, rubbing his face against him, breathing in that Sammy-smell he’d know anywhere, nuzzling the soft cheeks of Sammy’s ass, putting his face between the cheeks of Sammy’s ass, nuzzling him there, licking that soft skin again.  Sammy was gasping softly.  His hands had curled into fists.

Dean sat up.  He put a thumb on Sammy’s asshole, gently rubbed the soft crinkled skin, circling his thumb around.  Sammy wriggled suddenly, then stilled.  He whimpered against the couch, his voice muffled.  Dean looked at him thoughtfully.  Was he going to do this?  Yeah, he was.  He put his index finger into his mouth, wetting it.  Then inserted it carefully into Sammy’s asshole.  Sammy was whimpering again, muffled, trying to be silent.  Dean smiled at him.  Then he pushed his finger gently in, feeling Sammy’s hot smooth flesh close tightly around it like a glove.  Sammy was wriggling again.

“Stay still,” Dean whispered.  He put his other hand on Sammy’s ass to steady him, then pushed his finger in farther, past the tight resistant muscles, into the deep heat of Sammy’s body.  Sammy gasped, but not with pleasure.  He actually sounded rather upset.  Put upon.  He whimpered again, a soft sound of protest.  Dean ignored this, moving his finger around experimentally.  He watched Sammy carefully.

Despite the soft sounds he was making, wordless _(see Dean?  I’m doin like you said)_ , Sammy was holding himself obediently still.  He didn’t appear physically uncomfortable, but didn’t seem to be enjoying this much, either.  Dean frowned.  What were those porno mags going on about?  Anal was supposed to be awesome.  He pushed his finger in deeper, burying it in Sammy up to the hilt.  The slick, tight grip of Sammy’s little asshole, blazing hot.  Dean thought about how this would feel around his cock, this tight, tight heat, and a bolt of crazy pleasure shot straight through him.  He was suddenly achingly hard.  He leaned over Sammy, shuddering.  Moved his finger around inside Sammy in a slow, strong massage, massaging Sammy from the inside, wanting his brother to feel that same pleasure that was taking him over.  His finger touched something, a spot with a slight difference in texture, like a muscle.  He pressed against that spot, pushing the pad of his finger against it, rubbing.

Sammy gasped.  Then suddenly he was writhing, his voice mewling uncontrollably, his ass coming up hard against Dean’s hand, pushing against Dean’s finger.  “ _Omigod-“_   His head was up, arched back. 

“Feel good, Sammy?” Dean whispered shakily.  His cock was aching unbearably.  He pressed his finger against that spot in Sammy’s ass again, rubbing it carefully.

 _“Oh-“_ Sammy’s head, flung back.  His ass was writhing against Dean’s hand, his body impaled on Dean’s circling finger.  _“Oh, omigod, D-“_   He stopped himself, swallowing his words.  Then mewled again, his voice rising helplessly, keening.

“Want me to stop?” Dean whispered.  “Sammy?”  His finger, rubbing.

Sammy, rolling his head.

“Tell me,” Dean whispered.

 _“No,”_ Sammy whispered back.  “…don’t, don’t stop…”  Keening, again.

Dean was shuddering.   He undid his jeans roughly, yanking them down, freeing his cock.  Pushed his cock against Sammy’s body, against that creamy skin, curving himself over Sammy, his lips open against Sammy’s skin.  He thrust his free hand between Sammy’s legs, found his brother’s cock, grasped it roughly, gliding his thumb over the silky head.

 _“Oh-“_   Sammy was moaning, shaking.  Abandoned, caught between Dean’s two hands, helpless.  And then he was coming, spurting into Dean’s hand, slick between his fingers.  Pleasure exploded through Dean finally, with his brother writhing, shuddering under him, that dark whiskey voice pleading, Sammy’s tight hot little body gripping him like a promise, and he came, his cock thrusting against Sammy, his little brother, his own little person put on earth, just for Dean.

The two of them collapsed together on the couch, exhausted.

“We need to clean you up again,” Dean murmured to Sammy.   Sammy nodded, silently.  He looked up at Dean appealingly.  The eyes.

Dean grinned.  “Spankin first.  And _then_ you c’n speak without my say.”  Sammy glared at him.

Dean kissed him, grinning.  Then got up, untangling himself from his brother, pulling up his jeans.  Picked up the washcloth, went to the bathroom again, running it under hot water.  Back to Sammy, wiping him down tenderly.

Then sitting on the couch.  Gesturing to Sammy.  “C’mere.”

Sammy crawled over to him, draping himself over Dean’s knees.

Dean looked down at him, enjoying the sight of Sammy’s upturned ass, waiting.  Ran his hand over the round, smooth cheeks.  “Ready?”  Sammy nodded silently.

Dean spanked him, about twenty times.  Not too hard, just enough to get the point across.  Give Sammy something to think about.  Sammy started wriggling, towards the end, his butt quivering.  It had turned a light pink.  “Stay still,” Dean said to him.  He spanked him again, a little harder.  Sammy winced, but stopped wriggling.  Dean spanked both cheeks one more time for good measure, then rested his hand on the warm pink skin.  “So what was this for, Sammy?” Dean asked him.

“Not listenin when you asked me to be quiet.”  Sammy answered. 

“’N’ why is that bad?” Dean asked him.

“Because I’m supposed to do whatever you say,” Sammy muttered.  He didn’t sound happy about it. 

Dean spanked him hard, one cheek then the other.  Sammy gasped.  “Ow!”

“And _why_ are you doin that, Sammy?” Dean asked him.

“Because I promised,” Sammy said, breathlessly. 

Dean spanked him again.  _“Ow!”_

“Promised _what?”_   Dean asked him.

“Promised to…do what you tell me.  Anythin you say.”  Sammy’s voice was shaking, slightly.

“That’s right,” Dean said.  “You promised that to me, Sammy.  `N’ if you forget, there’s gonna be consequences.  So what are you sayin now?”

“I’m sorry,” Sammy said.  “I’ll try to remember.”

Dean spanked him again, two hard swats, giving Sammy something _else_ to remember.  Sammy gasped, quivering.  “You do that,” Dean said to him.  Then he rubbed his hand over Sammy’s warm pink butt, caressing it. Felt Sammy settle down.  He turned his head, looking up.  Dean smiled at him.  Said, “You know, bein able to shut you up is one of the best things about this whole deal.  I like it almost as much as kissin you.”

Sammy glared at him.  Dean grinned.  Then he pulled Sammy into his arms, arranging him on his lap.   Sammy was still glaring at him, but he came unresisting.  He curled up on Dean’s lap the way he used to, when he was just a little kid.  Dean put his lips into Sammy’s hair, murmuring.  “That mouth of yours is good for a whole lot more than bitchin at me.  Isn’t it Sammy?”  His arms were around Sammy, holding him, his hands stroking Sammy’s back.

Sammy had leaned into him.  “Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  He kissed Sammy again, the smooth lips, parting.  Then leaned forward to the coffee table, one arm around Sammy like a bundle, and poured himself another glass of whiskey.  Settled back on the couch, holding Sammy comfortably in his lap, the glass in his hand.

“C’n I get dressed now?” Sammy asked him.

“In a bit,” Dean said.  He kissed the top of Sammy’s head, putting his nose into the silky hair.  His SammySam. “I want to just sit here for awhile, with you.”

“Okay,” Sammy said.  He snuggled himself into Dean’s arms.

Dean’s eyes were closed.  He rested his cheek against Sammy’s hair.  Took a sip of his whiskey, savouring it.  Then another.

“You good Sammy?” he asked his brother absently.

Sammy was quiet.

Dean opened his eyes.  “You good Sammy?” he asked again.

Sammy quiet.

Dean looked down at him, put his lips in Sammy's hair.  "Sammy," he whispered.  "You answerin me?"

“…Yeah,” Sammy said.  The sound of Sammy’s quiet voice, like velvet.  The sound of that voice, in Dean's ears, in his mind.  His little brother.  “I’m good, Dean.”

“You like bein mine?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  He’d dropped his head onto Dean’s chest. 

Dean smiled.  He sipped his whiskey.


	22. Chapter 22

Sammy sitting on his lap.

Dean hadn’t realized how much he missed that until Sammy started doing it again. 

He’d practically raised Sammy that way.

They’d never had a high chair (too much trouble to pack in the car).  Their dad had tried using Sammy’s car seat as a booster seat, but that never worked somehow (Sammy hated sitting in his car seat – he would turn to Dean, stretch out his arms and howl).

So Dean ended up feeding Sammy on his knee. 

In motel rooms, at diners, on picnic tables at outdoor rest stops.  Sammy perched on Dean’s knee, drinking out of his bottle while Dean ate, or with Dean leaning over the table, feeding himself and Sammy at the same time, out of the same plate (as soon as Sammy was old enough for big people food), or juggling a spoon between the warmed up bowl of baby food and his own plate (and pretending to eat the baby food so Sammy would eat it too). 

Or folded together on the couch, watching cartoons while their dad scowled at the papers on his desk.  Sammy snuggled in Dean’s lap, watching the TV screen then watching Dean.  Laughing when Dean laughed (because it must be funny).  Dean getting up to use the bathroom, setting Sammy aside, Sammy immediately fussing, protesting, waddling after Dean on his chubby little legs.  Howling.

“Sammy, Jesus, shut up, willya?”  Their dad’s irritated voice.  Sammy outside of the closed bathroom door, howling, or (Dean giving in), sitting on the bathroom floor while Dean did his business, looking at up him fascinated (Dean remembered this, Sammy didn’t…and denied it…strongly).

Or Dean, crying after being whipped by their dad.  Sitting gingerly on the couch after their dad released him from the corner, holding Sammy on his knee, clutching his little brother to him and putting his tearful face against Sammy’s silky head.  Sammy on his lap, little arms around Dean’s neck, crying too (because Dean was crying), Dean murmuring to him, “S’okay Sammy, s’okay, s’okay, Sammy.”

And then Sammy, burrowing into Dean’s lap after those times that Dean punished him, his face against Dean’s shirt, crying.  Dean comforting him, stroking his hair, Sammy settling down eventually.

Dean so accustomed to that warm weight of Sammy on his lap. 

The solid, sweet weight of baby Sammy, pudgy in his stained cotton pjs, his plump, diapered bottom perched on Dean’s lap, looking up at Dean with big bright eyes.  And then squirming toddler Sammy, Dean’s arm firmly clamped around his waist to prevent a tumble, Sammy fussing, butting his head against Dean in frustration, howling (and boy, could he yell), Dean muttering “Dumbass” to him over and over again, trying not to lose his temper (because there was always their dad, ready to yell _too,_ and that was worse, way worse).  And then skinny little kid Sammy, lively, curious, always yapping (to Dean, that is).  Climbing into Dean’s lap even when he was kind of too big for that, like Dean was a chair he could sit on whenever he wanted to.

Sammy would put himself there so naturally.  So matter-of-factly, like he had every right to be there, every right to clamber up on Dean’s body, arrange himself on Dean’s stomach and legs, tuck his head under Dean’s chin.  Dean would groan, as Sammy got bigger, but he never told Sammy he couldn’t.

But their dad did, eventually.

Sammy must have been about seven.  Dean and him sitting on the couch (another shabby, threadbare motel couch, stale tobacco smell, another shabby housekeeping room in a discount motel, mostly empty parking lot, dirty neon sign flashing outside their window).  Both of them watching the fuzzy TV, Bugs Bunny and the Roadrunner.  Sharing a bag of salt ‘n’ vinegar chips from the vending machine outside.  Sammy climbing onto Dean like he usually did, his head bumping gently against Dean’s face.  Making a place for his butt on Dean’s lap, Dean groaning. 

“Jeez Sammy, watch it willya?  You’re gettin heavy.”

“Sorry,” Sammy said comfortably.  Shifting himself around.

“Sammy…I can’t see.”

“…C’n you see now?”

“No.”

Sammy bumped his head against Dean’s face again, like he was trying to move his chin two inches to the right.  “How’s that?”

“That’s _great,_ Sammy, gotta great view of your _head,_ thanks.”

Sammy turning, looking up at Dean’s face, smiling.  “Ha.”

“Yeah, ha ha.”  Dean put his hand on top of Sammy’s head, shoved it firmly under his chin.  “There.”

“Ow Dean, now _I’m_ scrunched.”

“Too bad.”  Dean spread his legs, allowing Sammy to settle down between them.  Sammy slouched against Dean, nestling his back against Dean’s front, Dean wrapping his arms and legs around Sammy to hold him in place.  “Now gimme those chips.”   Sammy handed the bag over.

The two of them watching TV, crunching.

Their dad, entering the room, holding a bag of groceries.  Glancing absently at his sons then pausing, looking back at them sharply.

Dean suddenly saw himself and his brother through their dad’s eyes.  Sammy, resting on him luxuriously, snuggled up against Dean with the entitlement of a cat.  Dean, curled protectively around him.

“Sammy, what are you, a baby?” the dad said.  “You’re too old to be sittin on your brother that way.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Dean said.  He made an attempt to sit up straight.

“No…it’s not,” their dad said.  “Sammy, it’s time to grow up ‘n’ act your age.  Stop sittin on your brother like a pansy.  And Dean, stop encouragin him.  You’re not helpin.”

Both Dean and Sammy were staring at him now, upset. 

“Sammy’s not a pansy, Dad,” Dean said.  “Don’t say that to him.”

“Well it sure looks that way from over here,” their dad said.  “Sammy, get off your brother, now.”

Sammy moved away from Dean sullenly.  The two of them sat stiffly side by side on the couch, watching their dad carefully.

Their dad nodded.  “That’s better.  Dean, come help me put these away.”  Gestured to the bag of groceries.  Dean got up.  Their dad was pouring himself a drink.  Said, “You have to understand son, that you’re not doin Sammy any favours by lettin him climb all over you like that, whenever he wants to.”

“But he likes it, Dad.  What’s the harm?”

“Sometimes givin someone what they like isn’t the same as givin them what they need.  Sammy needs to toughen up, ‘n’ stop thinkin he c’n be the baby of this family forever.  ‘N’ if you keep _treatin_ him like a baby Dean, he’ll keep _seein_ himself as one.  And he’ll stay lookin at you to take care of him like one.  Is that what you want for him?”

“…No,” Dean replied, tentatively.

His dad nodded.  “That’s right.  No.  He needs to start seein himself as a man eventually, ‘n’ actin like one.  It’s not too early to get that through his head.  So do him and you a favour ‘n’ stop treatin him like a baby.  He’s way too old for that, Dean.  And you’re not his mother.”

Dean looked down.  He was terribly upset suddenly, hot tears rising up.  “I’m what he’s got,” he muttered resentfully.

His dad’s hand on his shoulder.  “You’ve been great with him, son, don’t think I don’t know it.  I dunno know how I’d have managed, without you.  Couldn’t’ve, most likely.  But listen to me now.   You keep treatin Sammy like he’s soft, he’ll grow up to be soft.  And in this life…soft gets you killed.”

Dean swallowed.  Sammy, killed.  Dead.  Because Dean hadn’t raised him right.  He looked over at his brother, who was staring at him from the couch.  Nodded.  “Okay Dad.  I won’t let Sammy sit on my lap anymore.”

His dad, nodding.  “That’s the right decision, son.”

And so Dean didn’t.  For the most part. 

It took awhile to get the message across to Sammy.  And he wasn’t happy about it.  He’d complain and pout and stare at Dean with wide, hurt eyes.  He’d try to crawl into Dean’s lap and bitch at him something fierce when Dean pushed him away.

“Why!”

“Because you need to stop bein a baby, Sammy.  I told you that.  `N’ dad said so.”

“Why do you _care_ what he says?”

“How c’n you even ask that?  Now stop bein such a softie.  I don’t want a crybaby for a brother.”

Sammy staring at him furiously, the tears welling up.  “Well then _fuck you,_ Dean!”  Stomping off.  Ignoring Dean for the rest of the evening, Dean quietly miserable.

But Sammy eventually stopped climbing into Dean’s lap.  Stopped snuggling with him altogether, in the natural, unselfconscious way they’d been used to.  It’s not that Dean didn’t still hug him.  He still did, plenty (he couldn’t stop himself).  But hugging was different from snuggling.

There were two exceptions to this, that they both wordlessly accepted.  Sammy would snuggle with Dean at night, after they were in bed.  Climb in beside Dean and wrap his arms and legs around his brother, fiercely, silently, claiming Dean’s body in the way he couldn’t, during the day.  And he never stopped doing that, just got sneaky about it, after their dad became upset with them for holding each other as they slept and separated them. 

And after Dean punished Sammy, those harsh whippings, with his belt.  Sammy would crawl into Dean’s lap, crying, after punishment, and Dean would let him.  He’d put his arms around Sammy tenderly, kiss him, hold him.  Murmur to him, like he used to.  And Sammy would take full advantage of this, snuggling against Dean like he was a baby again.  Both of them loving that moment, but saying nothing about it. 

Because of the price they had paid, both of them, to get there.

But now.

They were free to hold each other again, finally.  To snuggle and nuzzle each other like before.  Like a dam breaking, that flood of affection, saved up through all those years, now crashing through them all at once, overwhelming them both.  Sammy, little again, snuggled on Dean’s lap, Dean’s baby brother, his baby boy.  Sammy folding himself small into Dean’s lap, Dean curling around him, holding Sammy tenderly (so precious).  Like a long awaited birthday gift, Sammy sitting on Dean’s lap, again.

Dean had missed this, he understood now, so much more than he’d realized.  Holding baby Sammy.  The piercing sweetness of that, completing him.  And now he had it, again.

That summer, in the New Hampshire forest.

Dean pulling Sammy on top of him, grinning, bundling Sammy onto his lap whenever he wanted to (which was pretty much whenever he sat down).  Sammy falling onto him, laughing.  Then curling into Dean’s lap like a kitten.

Or Sammy, plopping himself down.  Sometimes butt first, that round little ass nestling on top of Dean’s crotch, Sammy putting his arms around Dean, nuzzling his neck, kissing his face, his lips. 

Or sitting on Dean, front first, Sammy straddling Dean as he sat in a chair, his cock rubbing enjoyably against Dean’s cock, and then leaning forward, kissing Dean on the mouth, Sammy putting his tongue in Dean’s mouth, rocking himself against Dean until they were both gasping, shuddering with pleasure, sometimes coming together like that, messing up Dean’s clothes again (Sammy mostly naked when he sat on Dean, so _his_ clothes were fine), sometimes ending curled up on the couch or bed (or floor), their mouths on each other’s cocks (the sixty-nine position…Sammy and Dean figured that one out, that summer, and it was just as awesome as the porno mags said it was). 

Sammy would cuddle himself up on Dean’s lap for the next two years until he suddenly shot up, finding the height their dad had promised him, suddenly as tall as Dean, seemingly overnight, and then taller.

But until that time, happily sitting on his brother.   Dean’s baby, again.

The morning after the hunt.

Their dad had dropped off Dean at the cabin while it was still dark, not even bothering to get out of their car, and then pulling away, back to Maurice and Manon, waiting for him in Maurice’s truck by the side of the highway (off to celebrate with Manon, he really _did_ have a thing going with her that summer, Dean could barely be around the two of them, I mean…Dad, get a room already). 

Dean walked up to the cabin, every light blazing.  The door open, Sammy standing there, a dark silhouette. 

“Dean!”  Sammy, pale, tearstained, trembling with the effort of standing still, clearly dying to fling himself into Dean’s arms but mindful of their dad, pulling away.

Dean coming towards him, walking up to Sammy standing in the doorway, opening his arms, Sammy jumping into them anyway.  Dean folding his arms around Sammy, Sammy crying, Dean walking his brother backwards into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind them.

Embracing his brother, kissing him, Sammy kissing him back, holding Dean’s face with both hands, kissing him, crying.

Sammy whispering, “Dean, I was so worried, I was so worried Dean.”

 _“Told_ you not to worry,” Dean murmuring.  “Nothin’s goin to happen to me while I’ve got you to come back to, I promised you that, remember?”

“I was so worried though,” Sammy whispered again.  He was clinging to Dean, his wet face against Dean’s throat.

“I know,” Dean murmured.  He was kissing Sammy again, his lips on Sammy’s face, relishing that creamy soft skin.  “I’m sorry SammySam.”

“I _wish_ you’d let me come with you,” Sammy said (for the millionth time). 

Dean sighed.  “I told you, if you were there Sammy, I’d be more worried about protectin you than killin that spirit.  `N’ that could get us both dead.  Besides…it was better you not be there.  The spirit might’ve gone after you instead of me.”

“…You killed it Dean?”  Sammy asked him.  Those big eyes, looking up.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I killed it.”

“Was it the way we thought?” Sammy asked.

“…Yeah,” Dean said eventually. 

“Was it…bad?” Sammy asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.   He closed his eyes briefly _(no, he’d think about that later)_ “Pretty bad.  But it’s done now.  Time to celebrate, Sammy.  `N’ I need a drink.  Let go of me for a moment.”  (Sammy’s arms were tight around Dean’s neck.  He wasn’t going anywhere).  Dean gently grasped his wrists, undoing him.  “C’mon Sammy, just for a moment.”   Turned towards the Dewars bottle.  Opened it and took a swig, not bothering with a glass.

Sammy behind him.  His voice.  “You can’t leave me behind forever, Dean.  If I’m stayin with you ‘n’ Dad…you’ve gotta let me come out with you.”

Dean turned back to him.  Looked at his brother, standing in front of him in a pair of worn out flannel pajamas (Dean’s, from when he was twelve), a bit short on Sammy now, his slender wrists and ankles sticking out (so adorable, his Sammy, even when he being upsetting). 

Dean went over to him.  Grasped Sammy’s upper arms.  Started kissing him again, intently.

Sammy dragged his mouth away, with some difficulty.   “Dean!  You hear what I just said?”

Dean kissing him, his fingers on the buttons of Sammy’s pajama shirt.  “What’s this still doin on?” he asked.  Undoing Sammy’s shirt, Sammy trying to twist away from him, ineffectually.

Sammy batting at his hands.  “Dean!”

Dean ignored him.  He had Sammy’s shirt off now, his hands stroking over Sammy’s bare torso and arms.  Dipped his head, placed his mouth gently on top of a nipple.  Licked it.

Sammy’s fingers, trying to yank on Dean’s short hair.  “Dean!”  His breath hissing, involuntarily.  “Did you hear-“

Dean picked his brother up and threw him over his shoulder.  Lightly smacked Sammy’s pajama covered butt then walked with him into the bedroom.  Tossed him onto the bed, Sammy landing with a bounce.

Sammy tried to sit up.  “Dean!  Seriously!  Did you hear-“

Dean placed a hand in the centre of Sammy’s chest and pushed him back down.  “I heard,” he said.  He was on top of Sammy now, leaning over him, his hands braced on both sides of Sammy’s head.  “I heard you just fine.  Whaddaya mean _if_ you’re stayin? There’s no _if_ about it Sammy ‘n’ I don’t want to hear that out of your mouth again.  You’re _with_ me ‘n’ Dad and you’re not _thinkin_ any different, any more.  _That’s_ our deal.  Right?”  He was looking at Sammy carefully.

Sammy blinked.  “All I meant was…I wanna go out on hunts with you now, Dean.  You can’t be leavin me behind forever,” he answered.  His voice was subdued.

Dean smiled.  Dropped his head down and kissed Sammy on the lips.  “You’ll come out with us when Dad says you’re ready,” he said.  “Until then, I need you to be good and stay put when we tell you.  It’s for your own safety.  Okay?” 

Sammy stared at him, frowning.  Not agreeing with this, clearly. 

Dean bent down again and kissed one eyelid then the other.  “It’s important to me Sammy,” he said.  “I need to know you’re safe.  You c’n come out with us when you’re bigger, I promise.  Okay?”

“But-“

Dean was kissing him again, dropping kisses on Sammy’s eyelids, his cheeks, his lips.  “No buts,” he said.  “I need your promise, Sammy.  That you’ll be here when I come home.  Your promise keeps _me_ safe.  Understand?”

Sammy’s eyes were fluttering closed.  He said faintly, “But Dean, I-“

“-Uh uh.”  Dean kissing him (kissing Sammy’s mouth, that soft smooth mouth, opening to him). 

“Promise me,” Dean whispered.

Sammy’s eyes were closed.  “I promise,” he whispered back.

Dean smiled against his mouth.  “Besides,” he said.  “The thought of you, Sammy, waitin for me…naked…in bed…” his hands were on Sammy’s pajama bottoms, stripping them off.  “It’s very motivatin.”  His mouth was on Sammy’s cock, sucking his brother’s cock back hard into his mouth, Sammy arching under him, mewling.  “This is how I want you waitin for me next time…okay?”  His mouth, closing tight again on Sammy’s cock.

Sammy shuddering under him.  His voice barely audible, a soft gasp, “Okay…Dean… _god_ …”  Then moaning, coming into Dean’s mouth, his head tossing. 

And so on, the two of them going at each other relentlessly as the sky brightened outside, attacking each other with lips and hands, competing with each other even (at who was better at this, at making the other moan and shudder…another kind of competition and so rewarding). 

And then snuggling, cuddling, Dean cuddling Sammy in bed, wrapping his arms around him, nuzzling his face into Sammy’s silky hair, Sammy burrowing into him.

And then sleeping finally, collapsed against each other, exhausted.

Waking up, fitted together like spoons, the day half gone.

“Where’s Dad?”  Sammy’s sleepy voice.

“With Manon.  I’m not expectin him back real soon,” Dean said.

Sammy yawned.  “You wanna go down to the lake?” he asked. 

“Sure,” Dean got up.  Ambled to the bathroom, took care of business, came back.  Looked at Sammy, naked on the bed.

“C’n I get up now?”  Sammy asked. 

Dean looked at him.

“…`N’ get dressed?” Sammy asked.

Dean smiled.  “Sure,” he said agreeably.  “Say…you wanna eat down there?  We could bring food, stay out the rest of the day.”

“Okay.”  Sammy was up, hunting around for the pair of worn out denim cutoffs he used for swim trunks.  Dean turned away from him, went to the kitchen.  Peered into the fridge.  “I’ll pack lunch,” he called over his shoulder.

“Okay.”  Sammy’s voice, from the bathroom.   The shower running.

By the time Sammy was finished, Dean had packed the cooler (salami sandwiches, a family-size bag of Cheetos, Coke and water for Sammy and a couple of beers for him).  They made their way down the steep forest path, two of Maurice’s threadbare towels over their shoulders, Dean carrying the cooler.

Sat down on their favourite rock, a flat grey slab of granite jutting out into the lake, the clear, dark blue water deep on either side.

The mid day sun, beating down, glancing off the quiet lake, hot on Dean’s shoulders. 

Sammy observing him, concerned.  “You bring the sun lotion, Dean?”

“Yeah, in the cooler.”

Sammy retrieved the bottle of lotion, started rubbing it over Dean’s shoulders and back.  “You shoulda put this on before we left, Dean,” he grumped.  “You’re already burnin.  Or at least brought down a shirt.  You _never_ remember.  `N’ if you’re not careful you blister, you _know_ that.”

Dean’s eyes were closed, enjoying this (he rather liked it when Sammy fussed over him, that bossy mouth flapping).  “I’ll be fine.  What about you, you should put some on too.”

“I don’t need it like you do.”  (Sammy was right about this, he tanned dark in the sun, like their dad.  It was Dean who got all freckly and burned).

“Put some on anyway.”  Dean took the bottle away from Sammy, squeezed lotion onto his hand.  “Turn around.”

Sammy turned himself around obediently and lay down on the rock, pillowing his head on his arms.  Dean rubbed the lotion over him, enjoying the smooth glide.  “I’m gonna use some of this on you tonight,” he said cheerfully.  “Slick up that little ass.”

Sammy threw him a glance over his shoulder.   Dean smiled.  Sammy looked at him then settled his head back down on his arms.  Dean patted his butt gently.  “Gonna get right in there,” he murmured.

Sammy lay quietly.  Dean watched him, enjoying the sight of Sammy’s body (so adorable in those cute little shorts), glistening now with lotion, lying browning in the sun.  He was tempted to rip those shorts off, run his hands over Sammy’s smooth little butt and get started with that lotion now rather than wait for tonight, but restrained himself (although the lake was quiet, there were still people around, and they _were_ out in the open).  He turned his eyes back to the water, slitting his eyes against the glare.  Sighed appreciatively.  He could relax finally.  The hunt was over.  He pulled a beer out of the cooler, cracked it open.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “When were you plannin on fuckin me, Dean?”

 _“What?”_ Dean looked over, shocked.  Sammy’s head was still pillowed on his arms.

“Where’d _that_ come from?” Dean asked him.

Sammy turned his head around, looked at him.  “Don’t you think it’s a fair question?” he asked.  “Given what you’ve been doin.”

Dean hesitated.  “What’ve I been doin, Sammy?”

Sammy looked at him.  “You’ve been workin me,” he said softly.  “Feels like you’re workin up to it.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly.  A vision of Sammy’s ass came into his mind, turned up under his hand, Dean slipping a greased finger into that ass, deep into Sammy, finding that spot easily now, the one that made Sammy shiver and cry out.  And then slipping a second finger into him, smoothly, carefully, stretching out Sammy’s little asshole with his two greased up searching fingers, Dean’s breath shuddering now, his eyes fixed on his hand and what it was doing to Sammy, not seeing anything else but that…Sammy rolling his head, keening, his silky little body wriggling around those fingers, but accommodating them now, easily. 

Because Dean was working him.  Working that little ass.  Like Sammy said.

Dean swallowed.  Then said, “I’m not fuckin you anytime soon, Sammy.”

“…Why not?”

“Because you’re too young, that’s why.”

Sammy’s eyes on him.   “But you want to,” he said.  “Don’t you?”

Dean was quiet for a moment.  Then laughed briefly, shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess I do, Sammy.  I do.  But I can’t, not yet.  You’re too young.  I couldn’t live with myself.  You’re only thirteen.”

“So when, then?” Sammy asked him. 

Dean shrugged again, uncomfortably.  “I dunno.  Couple…three years, maybe.”

“…Three _years?”_

“Yeah.”

Sammy turned around.  He sat up, elbows balanced on his knees.  Said, “So…you think it’s okay to do…absolutely everythin else…but I’m…three years too young for _that?”_

“…Yeah,” Dean answered.

“Does that…make _sense_ to you?”  Sammy asked him.

Dean was getting irritated.  “Yeah…it does, Sammy.  Now drop it, okay?”

Sammy was silent.  Dean looked out at the water.  Drank his beer.

Then Sammy, again.  “So you’re just waitin.”

Dean sighed.  Replied, “Yep.”

“Till I’m legal.”

“Uh huh.”

Sammy was silent, considering this.  Then said, “…So you’re  waitin too, huh Dean?”

Dean didn’t understand.  “What?”

“If you’re waitin till I’m older, that means you’re waitin too,” Sammy said.  He met Dean’s eyes.  “You’re waitin for me.”

Dean was quiet.

Sammy, looking at him.  “Dean?”

“…I guess so,” Dean said, uncomfortably.  “I hadn’t really thought about that.”

Sammy raised his eyebrows.  “Really?” he said.  “You told me you wanted to be like a regular guy, sometimes.  You never thought about fuckin a girl?”

Dean, uncomfortable.  “No…I have,” he said.  “Hard not to, sometimes.”

“But you’re not gonna,” Sammy said.  “Because you’re waitin for me.  For when I’m old enough.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Dean?”

“I’m four years older than you, Sammy,” Dean said.

“So?”  Sammy asked.

“…So…if I wait till you’re legal, that means I’m waitin till I’m twenty,” Dean replied.  Looked at Sammy.

Sammy looked back.  Nodded.  “That’s a long time,” he agreed, mildly.

Dean glanced at Sammy suspiciously (when Sammy’s voice got reasonable like that, that’s when you had to watch out). “…Yeah,” he said, after a moment.  “It is sort of a long time.”

Sammy nodded.   “Good thing there’s that…candy store of girls you c’n just… _help yourself to_ …while you’re waitin for me to grow up.  Takes the pressure off both of us.”

Dean sighed.  No sarcasm there.  “Well at least it doesn’t turn me into a criminal,” he replied shortly. 

Sammy snorted.  “And…you think...what you’re doin with me _now_ is legal?” he asked.

Dean shrugged, more uncomfortable (if that was possible).  “Um…I dunno.  Probably not.”  (Was it? Was there _anything_ out there to compare this to, what him and Sammy were doing?  Surely it had happened before…somewhere).

“Uh _huh,”_ Sammy said.  “So…what were you thinkin Dean?  That not fuckin me till I’m sixteen is goin to make you some kinda upstandin citizen?  So you’re thinkin you’ll fuck some girl in the meantime?  Like you’re doin me some kinda _favour?”_

Dean was feeling harassed, now.  “Well-“

“You think someone’s goin to give you a medal?” Sammy asked him.

Dean had had enough.  “Why’re you bein such a bitch, Sammy?” he asked.

“I’m _not_ bein a bitch,” Sammy replied.  “I want to get this straight.  Be clear on what we’re doin, here.   We both should, don’t you think?  Be clear, I mean.  It’s no good for either of us, if we’re not.”

Dean looked at him.  Sammy was younger than him, sure.  His baby brother  _(again)._   But sometimes he sounded frighteningly grown up.  But that wasn’t _Dean’s_ fault.  Was it?

“You’re not waitin till I’m sixteen,” Sammy continued.  “So stop foolin yourself.  If _that_ was so important to you, Dean, we wouldn’t have started this at all.”

Dean looked down.  Okay, so maybe Sammy had a point.  But still.  “I’m waitin till you’re older, Sammy,” he said stubbornly.  “It just doesn’t feel right to me, right now.  Even though I want to.  It’s been on my mind, I admit it.  But I’m tryin to do my best, here.”  Dean looked at his brother appealingly.  “Don’t you see that?”

“Doesn’t… _feel_ right,” Sammy repeated.  He didn’t sound impressed.

“Yeah.”   Dean met Sammy’s gaze then looked away.  He was starting to get mad.  Sammy wasn’t giving him enough credit here (and was _that_ anything new?).  Dean tying himself into knots, trying to do the right thing and what did he get for that?  Attitude.  Sammy was getting dangerously close to spanking territory.  Except Dean could see his brother was genuinely trying to have a conversation about this (despite being infuriating, like he was so good at).  So he wasn’t going to end up over Dean’s knee.  Yet.

Sammy’s voice.  “Doesn’t feel right…because of _what?_   You waitin for some kinda magic _sign_ , some green light…like, okay Dean, it’s alright to…fuck your little brother now?  It’s not bad anymore...you c'n still be a hero.”

Okay, _now_ Dean was officially pissed.  “Sammy, you’re bein one fuckin mean bitch,” he said sharply.  “Stop it.  I’m just tryin to protect you, that’s all.”

Sammy didn’t sound impressed by this either.  “Protect me from what?”  

“From…from gettin hurt, that’s what,” Dean answered.

And then Sammy said,

“If I’m _hurt_ Dean, that’s already happened.  It’s too late.  Sorry.”

Dean looked at him.

At Sammy, saying that to him. 

Sammy, saying that.  So matter-of-factly.  Like his words weren’t weapons meant to batter and wound.

“Sammy…please don’t say that,” Dean replied, after a moment.

“Why not?” Sammy said.  That matter-of-fact voice.  “It’s the truth.  And you know it, Dean.  You’re not stupid.”

Dean didn’t answer.  He sat still.  He was _not_ going to overreact here _(a bruise, a deep bloody bruise suddenly, deep inside of him, Sammy bruising him so deeply with those words he’d said/forget it)_. 

This wasn’t fair.  He was on vacation.  Come on.

“Me bein hurt is not the point, here.” Sammy said.

Sammy, saying that to him.

Dean took a breath.  “So what _is_ the point, Sammy?” he asked carefully.  “Why are we havin this conversation?”

Sammy’s eyes on him (those _eyes_ , Jesus _)_.  “If you’re waitin Dean, till it… _feels right,_ you have to wait…all the way.  I gotta be the first.  You gotta save yourself for me, too.”  Sammy set his lips in a tight line.

Dean took another breath _(ignoring that bruise inside of him, aching)._

“Fine,” he muttered (anything for this conversation with Sammy to be over, this civilized conversation with his merciless little brother, that mouth of his pinning Dean down like a bug).  Dean looked away from Sammy, towards the cool blue water.  He could go in for a swim about now.  Dive in and swim out to the middle of the lake. 

(He pictured this, swimming out, Sammy sitting there, staring after him, getting smaller and smaller, separated from Dean by a growing length of gently tossing water…an attractive picture right now). 

Dean felt his lips twitch upwards in a slight, pained smile.  He glanced at Sammy.

Who was glaring at him.

“That’s not good enough, Dean,” Sammy said.

Dean sighed.  “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“I want you to say _`I promise,’_ ” Sammy answered (those lips, set tightly).  “Just sayin _fine_ sounds like you’re puttin me off.  You’re expectin _me_ to keep a whole lot of promises _,_ Dean.  But when I ask _you_ for somethin _,_ you roll your eyes.  So don’t be sayin _fine_ like I’m some annoyin kid.  You gotta do better than that. _”_

Dean was quiet.  He looked at that clear water, so close.  Saw himself standing up, diving in. 

Swimming away, the water closing over his head.  Cool blue silence all around him.

“Dean!” Sammy said (he was using his bitch voice now.  Nobody could do bitch voice quite like Sammy). 

Dean sighed again.  “What?”

“I’m waitin.”

Dean thought about this.  There was a term for this, what Sammy was doing to him.  What was it? 

Oh yeah… _pussy-whipped._

That sounded about right.

“I promise,” Dean said shortly. 

That wasn’t enough for Sammy, apparently.  “Promise _what?”_ he said.  He was glaring at Dean, his jaw set.  Not giving Dean an inch, not one inch of wriggle room.

…Because this was too important to him, Dean saw.   

Dean felt himself give in.   (Felt himself doing this, throughout his whole body).

“I promise that…you’ll be the first for me too, Sammy,” he said.  He looked at his brother.  Those big puppy eyes, now gazing back at Dean expectantly.

Sammy’s wide eyes, gazing at him.  Like they had, all his life.  His brother’s eyes, fixed on Dean, that wide, intent, expectant look _(Dean, looking after me)_ , that same look from all these years, back from when Sammy was so small, too small to talk. 

Dean sighed again, but differently this time.  “I’ll wait for you, too,” he said gently.  “Happy now?”  He put a hand on Sammy’s foot, rubbed his thumb along the instep.  Smiled at his brother tentatively.  He was ready for Sammy to start smiling back at him.  His little brother.

Sammy didn’t smile. 

“And another thing,” he said.

Dean groaned.  _“What?”_ he asked.

“…It’s gonna be on _my_ say,” Sammy continued.  “Not on _your_ say.”

Dean looked at him.  “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked.

 _Now_ Sammy was smiling at him _(the little brat)._   _“That’s_ your magic sign, Dean,” he said.  _“That’s_ your green light.”

Dean wasn’t getting this.  “What are you sayin?”

Sammy narrowed his eyes.  He didn’t look so much like a puppy now.  More like a cat.  “I’m _sayin_ …that you’ve been thinkin you c’n just… _fuck_ me.  Whenever _you_ decide the time is right.  That I’ll just wait for you to work up to it.  Wait for you to feel…okay about it.  And then just… _let_ you, as soon as _you_ decide.”

Dean, looking at him.  “Well… _yeah._   So? _”_

Sammy, smiling (God, Dean wished they weren’t out in the open like this.  Back at the cabin, he’d wipe that smile off Sammy’s face so fast).  “ _So…_ ” Sammy said, “…that’s not happenin.”

Dean was breathing calmly.  He could be mature about this.  “What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

Sammy not smiling now.  “I _mean_ …that I don’t like bein _taken for granted._   Dean.”

Dean looked at him (at Sammy, winding him up yet again with that mouth of his, unbelievable).  “Who does?” he responded, sarcastically.

Sammy’s lips tightened.  Dean watched this, thought about running his tongue over those lips _(Sammy’s lips, the feel of them against his tongue…Sammy was building up to some real payback here)._ “Dean, I’m serious,” Sammy said.  “You think it’s all up to you.  But it’s not.”

Dean looked at him.

Sammy, smiling again.  “I might never let you fuck me,” he said softly. 

A punch.  

Sammy’d just punched him. 

 _“What!”_   Dean said.

Sammy shrugged, as if he hadn’t seen Dean go white.  “Or…maybe I will,” he said.  He smiled at Dean again.  “But that’s up to _me._   Not you.”

Dean was wordless.

Sammy, looking at him.  “You’re gonna have to ask,” he explained.  “And I’m gonna have to say yes.  And maybe…I won’t.”  

Boiling.  That was a good term.  Descriptive.  “Don’t play games with me,” Dean snapped.

Sammy’s eyes widened.  “I’m not,” he said.  He looked reproachful now. 

The eyes.  But they weren’t going to work this time.

“Yeah…you are, Sammy,” Dean said tightly.  “You’re playin games.  And I’m tellin you…when the time comes, you _are_ gonna say yes to me.  There’s no _maybe_ about it.  So don’t pretend like it’s any different.”

Sammy looked mad now.  “What did I say about takin me for granted,” he hissed.   “You think you c’n just do whatever the fuck you want.  Don’t you?”

“Well…yeah,” Dean said after a moment.  (Sammy wanted to have this conversation?  Sammy wanted things _clear?_   Fine.  Dean could be clear).  “With you…yeah.  I do.”

Now Sammy looked furious.  “Either you’re not listenin to a word I’ve said or you don’t care,” he snapped.  “I dunno which is worse.  But anyway…that’s it.  _To hell with you,_ Dean!” 

He started to get up.

Dean wasn’t having any of that.  He clamped a hand onto Sammy’s arm.  “You stay where you are!” he snapped back.  “I’m listenin just fine.  `N’ I’ve heard _more_ than enough.  Now _you’re_ gonna listen to _me.”_

Sammy looked down at his arm.  Then looked up.

“Let go of me,” he said coldly.

“No,” Dean said.  His voice was just as cold.  He felt his hand like a vice, gripped tight around Sammy’s slender arm.  Said, “You say you don’t like bein taken for granted.  Well I understand that just fine.  Know why?  Just what do you think _you’ve_ been doing, since Mom died?  Takin me for granted, that’s what.  You’ve been takin _me_ for granted, that I’ll always be around, lookin after you, thinkin about you, keepin you safe, worryin about you, tiptoin around your… _feelins,_ puttin up with you bitchin at me or freezin me out every time you get upset…You take me so for granted Sammy, you don’t even _see it.”_

Sammy was staring at him.

“But whatever,” Dean continued.  “I guess that doesn’t make a difference, even if I don’t like it.   Because guess what?  I _am_ here for you, Sammy.  I’m not goin anywhere.  I’m here for you till the day I die.”

Sammy was silent.

Dean looked at him.  “You take _me_ for granted,” he said.  “Sammy.  And I let you.  Like I have, for my whole life.”

Sammy’s mouth opened.  “But-“

“-But _nothin!”_   Dean snapped.   His chest was heaving.  He felt the words heaving up inside him, rising up like a geyser, a swell of words, compressed for years under dark compacted layers of earth, suddenly rising, uncontrollably.  “I’ve been here for you…I’m here for you…and you _know it,_ too…and you take me so for granted you think it’s _okay_ to act like you do…don’t care if you make me crazy…tell me to go to hell whenever you feel like it…play your little games with me…torture me-”

“How’m I-”

Dean’s voice rose.  “-Sayin to me I don’t _care_ …sayin to me you’re… _hurt…_ like that’s somethin I’m _okay with_ …like that’s somethin I c’n _deal_ _with_ …”  His voice cracked.  “How can you _say_ that to me Sammy?  How can you even _think_ that?” 

“I don’t-“

“You think I don’t think about that every single day?” Dean asked him.  He was shouting now.  “You think I don’t think about you bein hurt _every single day?”_

They looked at each other.

“…So if you think about it so much what’re you _doin_ about it then?” Sammy asked him.  His voice was cold _._

Dean was shaking.  “I’m taking care of you,” he said.  “Like always.  Like forever.  I _take care of you_ , Sammy.  I’m committed to that.  I promised you that, remember?  And if you’re hurt…if you’ve been hurt… because of me…I’m not runnin away from that, Sammy.  That’s on me and I’ll take care of it.  Take care of you like always.  Any way I need to.”  He stared at his brother.

Sammy was looking back at him thoughtfully.  “Take care of me forever,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “If that’s what it takes.”  

“Even if I never asked for that?” Sammy asked.  “What if I don’t want you to?  What if that’s the _last thing_ I’d ever ask for?”

Sammy’s mouth.  The deadliest weapon in the world.

Dean, shaking.  The sun was blazing down on him but he felt cold.  “Oh…you’re asking,” he answered bitterly.  “You’re asking, loud and clear.  Even if you say you’re not.  Even if you _think_ you’re not.  You’re _askin_ for what I’m providin.  Anythin else you have to say is just you, bein a bitch, like you’re so good at.”

They were both silent.

Then Sammy said, “That’s not true.”

“Sure it is,” Dean replied.

Silence again. 

Then Sammy.  “You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you Dean?”

“What do you mean,” Dean said tiredly.  He was exhausted.  So ready for this conversation to be over.

“You lookin after me…” Sammy began.  He paused.

Then said, “…you sayin you’ll do that if I’m _hurt_...like that fixes everything…and then me always needin you…”  Paused again.  Looked at Dean.  “That’s pretty convenient for you, isn’t it?” 

Dean couldn’t speak.  Couldn’t answer this.  Did Sammy think Dean _wanted_ him to be hurt?

All these years Dean had looked out for Sammy, looked after him…and _this_ is what his brother thought?

He couldn’t take this anymore.  Couldn’t continue, not this particular conversation.  Sammy said one more word, Dean was going to dive into that water and not come up.

“Look Sammy, why are we fightin?” Dean asked.  He heard his voice trembling.  _Damn_ Sammy, for doing that to him.  “What went wrong here?” he asked.  “I wanted us to have a nice day.”

“We’re _fightin_ …because _I_ told you that you couldn’t take fuckin me for granted and _you_ freaked out,” Sammy replied. 

In the most perfect, calm, cool, bitchy little voice. 

Like he hadn’t just said those other terrible things. 

Those words which had opened up a gap between him and Dean wider than the Grand Canyon.

“God, I feel like spankin you,” Dean muttered. 

Sammy didn’t blink.  “That wouldn’t be fair,” he said.  “I’m just tryin to have a _conversation_ here, Dean, remember?  Clear things up between us.”

“Well you’re doin a great job,” Dean replied sourly.  He took a breath.  “Okay, look.  C’n we start over?  What do you want to be _clear on,_ exactly?  Tell me.” 

“Why’d you freak out?”  Sammy asked him.  “What I said was reasonable.”

“Reasonable,” Dean said.  “You mean…that part where you said I might never fuck you? That I’d have to _ask_ …‘n’ you might say _no?”_

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  “That.  What’s wrong with that?”

“Everythin!” Dean said.  “Where do I start?”

Sammy frowned.  “Shuddup Dean.  I’m serious here.”

“So’m I!” Dean said. 

Sammy glared at him.  “Dean.  You had… _no reason_ to freak out on me just for sayin it was my choice.  Listen to me.  If you don’t respect that then to hell with you.  I mean it.”

“I’m listenin just fine,” Dean said.  “And I sure as hell had reason to freak out.  And respect has nothin to do with it.”

“I don’t understand,” Sammy said. 

Dean sighed.  This was difficult.  But Sammy was waiting.  Watching him, expectantly.

“Look…” Dean said slowly.  “…you say I’m takin you for granted.  And you’re right.  I am, I guess, if you put it that way.  But…don’t you see, Sammy?  I _need_ that.  I _need_ to take for granted that you’ll...be there for me.  Available.”

“Available,” Sammy repeated.  He frowned.

“Don’t get mad,” Dean said hastily.  “Listen.”  He paused.  This was not getting easier.  “Havin you with me…havin you _happy_ with me…that’s everythin to me Sammy, and you know it.  It always has been and you’ve _always_ known it.  And knowin you’re with me…knowin I c’n count on that…that’s everythin.  Don’t you see?”  Dean felt tears in his eyes, suddenly.  He meant what he’d said, every word. 

“Sammy, I need you to be that,” he whispered.

Sammy didn’t seem impressed.  “…And I guess that includes bein… _available,_ ” he said.  He sounded mad again.  “Fucked whenever _you_ decide it’s time.  Right Dean?  You’re just planning to… _help_ _yourself_ _to me,_ whenever _you_ want.  _That’s_ part of your everythin.  Isn’t it?”

Had Sammy even heard him?  Dean closed his eyes briefly.  Then said, “ _You’re_ the one who opened that door, Sammy.  You can’t put that all on me.  _You…_ doin what you were doin to me all those months…makin me want you…even though I hated myself for it…and now, the way you…are with me…makin me crazy for you…dyin for you…I’m _hooked_ on you Sammy and you know it,” Dean finished in a harsh voice.  He was shaking again.

Sammy watched him silently.

“And then you…sayin somethin different,” Dean continued painfully, “…that you might not want me after all...might tell me no…smilin at me while you say it…”

Sammy, silent.  Watching him.

“…and you ask me why I freak out,” Dean said.

Sammy looked down.  Both of them were silent now.

“You made me crazy for you,” Dean said eventually.  “And you can’t take that back.”

Sammy met his eyes briefly.  Then looked away, out over the water.

Dean stared at him.  “You gave yourself to me Sammy,” he said.  “And I’m countin on that now.  You know that.  I need that, from you, you made me…need that…and _you know that._   If you tell me somethin different...you’re just torturin me.  And you know that too.”

Sammy said nothing. 

“You can’t do that to me,” Dean said.  “I won’t let you.”

Sammy looked silently at the water.

Dean watched him, waiting for some reaction. 

Nothing.

Dean felt murderous suddenly.  Killing mad.  At Sammy, tying him into knots like this.

(And saying those cruel things that Dean would never forget now, that he wished he’d never heard). 

He stood up.  Grabbed his brother’s wrist and hauled him to his feet.  Sammy’s mouth opened.  “Dean!  What’re you-“

Dean was hauling him away from the water, towards the woods, Sammy protesting.  “Dean!  What’re you _doin!”_

“You’re comin with me,” Dean said shortly.  Yanked him forward.

Sammy dug in his heels.  _“Dean!_   No!  Stop it!  What-“

Dean turned, gripping Sammy by his upper arms.  Shook him, warningly.  “You’re comin with me,” he said.  “On your feet or on my back.  I don’t care which.”  He adjusted his stance, getting ready to pick Sammy up.

Sammy’s eyes widened.  “You can’t!  People’ll see- “

“-Who cares,” Dean said.  “Anyone lookin, they’ll just think I’m givin my baby brother some _what-for_ for mouthin off _._   Which I am.”  Turned back towards the woods, yanking on Sammy, his brother stumbling along behind him.  They entered the canopy of trees, a sudden cool, dappled shade.  Dean grabbed Sammy’s wrists then slammed him hard against a tree trunk. 

Sammy gasped.  “Ouch!  Dean!  C’mon!  What’re you-“  The rest of his words were cut off, smothered by Dean’s mouth.

Sammy was growling, protesting, struggling to break free.  Dean crashed into him, trapping Sammy against the tree trunk with his body, pinning Sammy’s wrists against the rough wood.  Kissed him violently, mashing his mouth against Sammy’s lips.

Sammy gasped, wrenched his mouth free.  _“Dean!  What the fuck!  Stop-“_  Dean’s mouth on his again.

“Thinkin you have the right to a _choice.”_   Dean whispering harshly against Sammy’s mouth.  “Thinkin you c’n…tell me _no_ , after what you’ve _done,_ after all you’ve done…to me…” Kissing him again, grinding down, tongue stabbing into Sammy’s soft mouth, kissing him, kissing Sammy’s lips, Dean pressed against him, his cock hard now, pressed tight into Sammy’s groin, the hard bulge there. 

Dean slowed, savouring this.  He fitted his cock tightly against Sammy, rocking his hips, rubbing.

Sammy’s ribs heaving, his breath starting to shudder, Sammy’s mouth open. 

“Thinkin you c’n take yourself _back,”_   Dean whispered.  He was pressed tight against Sammy, covering Sammy with his whole body, Sammy now leaning weakly against the tree.  Dean pressed further into that silky body, his whole skin alive, tingling with the brush of Sammy’s skin.  Sammy’s mouth opening, softening.

Dean kissing him, kissing him, leaning into him, Sammy’s mouth raised now, raised up to Dean’s, Sammy’s tongue curled into Dean’s mouth.  Sammy moaning, the sound muffled against Dean’s mouth.

Grinding against Sammy’s cock, the sharp pleasure of that, Sammy arching himself against Dean’s cock, gasping.

“Dean, _please,”_ Sammy said.  “C’n we just-“  Dean kissed him again.  “Shut up,” he said softly.  “You don’t get to speak right now.”  Kissed Sammy again.  “After what you just said to me…just to make a _point_ …”

“Dean-“

 _“You think you’re the only one who gets hurt?”_   Dean asked him.  Then kissing Sammy’s face, kissing his eyelids, his forehead, the tip of his nose, one cheek and then the other, attacking Sammy with these kisses, like blows.  And then his mouth, on Sammy’s, again.  Opening against Sammy’s mouth, nuzzling into his mouth.

Sammy pressed back against the tree, quivering. 

Dean broke the kiss, started kissing Sammy’s throat, opening his lips against Sammy’s salty, sweaty skin, trailing downwards, putting his mouth on the smooth curve between Sammy’s neck and shoulder, biting down on that, Sammy arched against him. 

Dean released his wrists, put his hands on Sammy’s waist.  Bent his head, put his mouth over a dark velvety nipple, bit it, sucked it back.  _“Oh,”_ Sammy arched against Dean’s mouth, his arms coming around to clutch at Dean’s head, no thought of struggle now.

Dean bit and licked at Sammy’s nipple until Sammy was crying out, then moved his mouth to the other one. 

“Oh _god-”_   Sammy’s broken voice.  Dean tonguing his nipple, stabbing at it.

“Dean _please,”_ Sammy said.

“Don’t worry,” Dean muttered, his lips busy on Sammy’s skin.  “I’ll get to it.”

“No,” Sammy said.  “I didn’t mean-“

Dean’s hands were on the waistband of Sammy’s cutoffs.  He ripped the fly open, shoved his hand inside, grabbing Sammy’s cock.  Curled his fingers around the rigid shaft.

Gave it a pull.

“Dean!”  Sammy’s brows twitched together.  “Please-“

“You want my mouth on you?” Dean asked him roughly.  Gave Sammy’s cock another pull.

Sammy shuddering.  “Dean-“

Dean was pulling rhythmically on Sammy now, starting to jack him off.  “Well?”

Sammy shuddering, “Oh-“  Moaning, Dean’s mouth on his again, swallowing that delicious sound.  His fingers, curled around, pulling on Sammy’s cock.  “You want my mouth on you?” he whispered against Sammy’s mouth.

“Yes,” Sammy whispered back.

Dean smiled.  “Say please,” he whispered.

“Please,” Sammy whispered back.

Dean kissing him.  Pulling on him, Sammy shuddering. 

“You need this,” Dean whispered to him.

Sammy was rolling his head back against the tree trunk, gasping softly.

“You need me,” Dean said.  “Doin this to you.”

Sammy, not answering.

But Dean was kissing him again, his mouth open, tongue stabbing into Sammy’s open mouth, devouring Sammy’s mouth, Sammy kissing him back, helplessly. 

 _“Answer me,”_ Dean said.  _“You need me doin this.”_

“Yes,” Sammy whispered.

Dean leaned against him.  He felt the warm weight of Sammy’s body under him, softened, opened, that warm, familiar weight, trembling. 

Buried his face against Sammy’s throat, the pulse throbbing, the taste of that damp, salty skin.  He felt himself pressed against Sammy’s body, so close, closer than breath, knowing only that sweet body under him, those slender arms around him, just Sammy, just there.

“I’m crazy for you,” Dean whispered.  Tears were in his eyes.  “I need you so bad.  And you know it.”

Sammy's arms, around him.

“But you need me too,” Dean said to him. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sammy answered.  His chest was heaving.

“And when the time comes,” Dean whispered.  “When I’m ready to _fuck you,_ Sammy…what will you say?”

Sammy was silent.  Dean raised his head, looked at him.  Sammy’s eyes were tightly shut.  But his mouth was open, trembling.

Dean kissed him, rocked against him, turned his palm against Sammy’s cock, rubbing.  Leaned against Sammy, the feel of his skin against Sammy’s bare skin, his lips on Sammy’s throat again.  Sammy’s cock, throbbing under Dean’s hand.

“Sammy,” Dean whispering against his brother’s throat.  “What will you say?”  The taste of Sammy’s salty skin, his tongue on Sammy’s throat.

Sammy’s breath shuddering.  Dean kissed him again, softly now, fitting his lips tenderly against Sammy’s mouth.  Licked Sammy’s mouth.  Stroked light fingers over Sammy’s cock, slick now, fluid leaking over the satiny head.  “Answer me,” Dean whispered. 

“Yes,” Sammy said.  His face twisted, suddenly. 

Dean barely noticed.  He was kissing Sammy, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, the soft skin under his ear, his throat again.  “Tell me again,” he whispered.  His fingers, stroking Sammy’s cock.  _“Sammy-“_

“- _Yes,”_   Sammy said.  His voice was shaking.

Dean bent his head over Sammy’s chest, closing his mouth over a nipple. Sammy shuddered.  Dean moved his mouth to the other nipple, sucking it, biting it, then down to Sammy’s stomach, kissing it, putting his tongue in Sammy’s bellybutton.

Then he was on his knees, his face in front of Sammy’s crotch, his hands yanking down Sammy’s shorts, burying his face in Sammy’s crotch.  Opening his mouth, taking Sammy’s cock deep into his mouth, Sammy gasping.  Closing his mouth tightly over Sammy’s cock, sucking hard on it, moving rapidly up and down along the shaft, curling his tongue around the head of Sammy’s cock, jabbing his tongue into the little slit there, the salty fluid.

“Omigod, _Dean!”_ Sammy crying out, shaking, propped weakly up against the tree, his hands curled helplessly against Dean.  Spurting, coming into Dean’s mouth, the sharp, salty taste of Sammy and Dean could never get enough of that, never get enough of his brother, never get enough if this lasted forever, because he was hooked on Sammy, crazy for him, helpless for his touch, his taste, the sound of his brother’s voice moaning, his Sammy, his sweet Sammy, his sweet baby boy.

Collapsed against each other on the leafy forest floor.

Dean, leaning tiredly against the tree.  His eyes were closed.

Sammy was curled in his lap, his cheek against Dean’s chest.  Dean stroked him, absently.

Sammy’s voice.  “So…when you goin to do it?”

Dean sighed.  “God, you don’t quit, do you?”

“Nope.”

“When you’re grown up a bit more,” Dean said.  “When I think it’s time.  `N’ don’t ask me when that’s goin to be, because I don’t know right now.”

Sammy’s voice.  “But what if I-“

“No,” Dean said.  “I told you to drop it.  _I’ll_ decide when the time is right, and trust me, you’ll know too.  Until then, subject closed.  You bring it up without permission, you’re goin over my knee.  Fair warnin.”

Sammy was silent.  Then said, cautiously, “So…we’re doin everythin else…but that…for now?”

Dean grinned.  “Yup,” he said.

“You gonna use your fingers on me?”  Sammy said.

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  “Gonna be workin that little ass.  Remind you who it belongs to.”

Sammy was quiet.  But Dean could see him thinking about this.  He leaned close, spoke into Sammy’s ear.  “Gonna put you up on your hands and knees,” he whispered.  “Your little ass in the air on my say.  And then…I’m gonna fuck you with my fingers till you’re wrigglin like a worm on a hook.  And when I’m done with you…” his voice lowered further.  “…you’re gonna be _beggin for it.”_

Sammy glared at him.

Dean grinned.

“It’s gonna be so good,” he whispered.  “You’ll see.  Tonight.”

Sammy shivered.

Dean put his arms around Sammy, kissed him.  “Don’t be scared, baby boy,” he murmured.  “Remember I’ll always take care of you.”  He was stroking Sammy, again.

Sammy’s eyes were closed.  “I’m your baby,” he murmured back.  He’d curled himself into a ball on Dean’s lap.

Dean felt tears again, suddenly.  He blinked them away.  Sammy had always known that.  Like Dean did.  But he’d never said it, before.

“You sure are, Sammy,” he said.  “My baby like always.”

The sweet weight of Sammy, on his lap.

They sat there a while longer, quiet in the shady summer forest, the wind rustling overhead.  Watched the lake, shining through the screen of branches, glinting bright in the distance.

Sat there, curled up together, their faces close.  Not talking.  Because this was completely enough.

But eventually they got up.  And went swimming.


	23. Chapter 23

Being owned.

…And being owned by Dean.

It had its ups and downs.

On the upside, there was all that attention.  To be the focus of such concentrated, passionate attention…it was exquisitely addictive.

…And because it was Dean giving him that, the one person Sam adored over everything and everyone else, the sun in his life from the beginning of time…

That attention like nothing else.  Nothing even came close to how Sam felt about this, to have Dean focused on him in this new way.

Dean had always been there for him, sure.  Sam’s big brother.  Looking out for him, concerned, cheerfully affectionate, sometimes tender, sometimes pissed off, but always there, the one reliable comfort in Sam’s uncertain life. 

And that attention was great.  Critical, actually…Sam’s food and water and shelter in the wasteland of their dad’s despair, that wasteland chosen by their dad as appropriate ground for raising his sons, a barren ground, bleak with vengeance, watered with alcohol.

But Sam had taken this attention for granted, as Dean so bitterly pointed out to him.  Dean’s care of him, a given, unremarkable to both him and Dean (and their dad), Sam conscious of it only in those times (mercifully rare but agonizing) when he didn’t have it, like air suddenly taken away.

So yeah, there was that attention, sure.

But this _other_ attention, from Dean, which Sam didn’t take for granted.  Couldn’t, because it was too overwhelming.

This new attention which Sam had longed for, campaigned for, begged for, without really knowing what he was even asking for, of Dean or himself.

Just that he had wanted it, from Dean.  Wanted it so bad and pursued it…pursued _Dean…_ like a prize.

Sam’s prize, his winning Dean that way.  His prize for toeing the family hunter-company-line for his whole childhood (and doing that for Dean, because it was important to his brother – Sam didn’t care that much what his _dad_ thought). 

So Sam’s prize, that attention.  To have Dean focused on him like this.  Like Sam was _his._   Sam all his, for kissing and cuddling and…other things.

For whatever he wanted, because Dean had claimed him, Sam was _Dean’s_ prized possession now and fiercely cherished. 

That fierce, possessive joy of ownership. 

Sam saw it in Dean’s expression, radiant, whenever Dean looked at him _(Sammy, he’s mine)._

And for Sam to know Dean felt like this, about him…

Like sugar, the concentrated pleasure of this knowledge.  Sugar, stirred into Sam’s life, sweetening the whole of it.

Making everything else worthwhile.

For Sam to belong to Dean like that…and then for Sam to _know_ that his belonging to Dean, like that…to know how important that _was_ to Dean…having Sam like that, it was everything to Dean (and Dean had _told_ him this too, but Sam knew anyway).

That knowledge so exquisitely sweet.

To be claimed by Dean.  To belong to him (his belonging).

To be desired like that, by his brother. 

And for Sam to accept it, that desire.  To relish it actually, that sharp pleasure.

To be owned.  How to describe it? 

It was so…interesting.

...And gratifying too, no lie.

Sam, waiting for Dean to come to bed. 

Dean was in the shower, the sound of running water loud through the thin bathroom door of their latest shabby motel room in their latest town, a little place in Salem County, New Jersey.  Their dad was on a hunt there (a haunting, nothing major), but he’d decided to stay on for awhile in that part of the country for some reason, so figured his sons could enrol in school there for a few months, even if the hunt didn’t take too long.  So they had, a little late, classes already underway, but they were expert at getting caught up by now (and anyway, Sam could have skipped at least two grades ahead if he’d wanted to, so it didn’t really matter for him, academically at least).  And with Dean, Sam made sure he was fine too (Sam was still coaching Dean on his homework and it was paying off…Dean seemed to enjoy surprising his teachers with his high marks, which were…unexpected, given his general appearance, demeanour and attitude in class).

Although Dean had been restless recently.  He’d been talking about not bothering with school this year, dropping out, getting full time work (after leaving New Hampshire they’d spent the final few weeks of summer at Bobby’s with Dean mostly under the hood of a car).  He figured he could get a cash job at an autobody shop to help with their increased expenses (he’d joked about being a breadwinner now -setting Sam up in their own room- Sam had rolled his eyes but smiled – Dean was so proud of himself to be able to do this, he saw).

But Sam had been adamant he wanted Dean in school.  He wanted Dean to graduate (leaving open the possibility of his going to college even if they never talked about it anymore).  Dean getting his highschool diploma was one of the few things both him and his dad were on the same page with.  So their dad and Dean concentrated on the pool hustling, out on a trip every week somewhere (and their dad, to give him credit, never complained once about getting the second motel room.  He and Dean figured out how to pay for it and did, no discussion).

So Dean grumbled, but stayed in school.  He sat across the table from Sam in the evenings, after the day’s training, frowning over his books, Sam nudging him along, Dean pulling in high eighties and nineties on quizzes and assignments (Sam making sure he was in good shape for the exams coming).  And Dean would bring home his marked papers, flip them casually over the table in front of Sam, not saying anything, but Sam could see he was waiting for Sam’s reaction.  Counting on it.

“Ninety-eight percent, Dean, holy shit!” Sam would gasp dramatically, holding out the (math sheet or book study or chemistry quiz) in front of him.  “That’s awesome dude!  I knew you were doin okay, but…holy shit!  This is great!”  Dean grinning now. “What’d you _expect_ Sammy?  You’ve been poundin that stuff into me for a week.  I’d have to be a moron not to pick it up.”

“This is truly awesome Dean,” Sam would say (and he meant it too).  “It’s so great not havin an idjit for a brother.  I was worried, for awhile.”

Dean rubbing Sam’s head (not so gently).  “Thanks a lot you little nerd.”

“Sure,” Sam replied.  “Anyway…you’ve got a history assignment due Thursday… (Dean groaned) …and I know that’s your _favourite_ class, so why don’t you get started – you need to review Chapters 8 through 10 and pick two questions to answer.  You need 500 words per answer, so you should get one done tonight and the other one tomorrow.  I’ll proofread them for you.” 

Dean groaning again.  “Fine, lemme just get a beer.”

“…No,” Sam said, firmly.  “You c’n drink afterwards, Dean, god.”  Dean rolling his eyes, but pouring both him and Sam glasses of milk.  Sitting down across from Sam at the rickety fibreboard motel room table, his history text in front of him, sighing, but studying (and Sam watching him surreptitiously, trying not to smile, a tremendous warmth glowing inside of him). 

His gorgeous big brother, sitting, frowning over those damn books.  For Sam.  Dean.

And then later, finished for the evening, Dean cracking open a beer, downing it in about three gulps, sighing again, but now with relief.  Sitting back, gesturing to Sam, who was in the chair across from him reading a library book (Sam’s homework finished long ago, but he made a point of sitting with Dean at the table until his brother was done – if Sam went and flopped down on the couch or bed, Dean was with him in like, two seconds, his own homework forgotten).  “What you readin?” Dean asked.

Sam marked the page and closed the book.  “The Grapes of Wrath.”

“Uh huh…so what’s that about…angry grapes?”

Sam smiled.  “Sort of.  It’s about this itinerant family, the Joads, who lose their farm during the Great Depression and travel across the country to California to try ‘n’ get work on fruit farms.  And the grapes stand for all the people who lose everythin and get like, oppressed by poverty and taken advantage of ‘n’ such.  And eventually they’re not goin to take it anymore.  So the wrath is the harvest of that, see?”

Dean, looking at him.  “Itinerant.  I take it you know what that means?”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “It means travelin all the time.  Like we do.  _We’re_ the definition of itinerant, Dean.”

Dean smiled at him slightly.  “Look at you.  The walkin dictionary.  C’mere Sammy.”  Opening his arms.

Sam got up and went over to him.  Sat himself down on Dean’s lap, Dean’s arms folding around him.  “Hey baby brother,” Dean murmuring.

“Hey,” Sam murmured back.  He was nuzzling into Dean’s neck, his eyes closed.  The warm solidness of Dean, the hard arms.

Dean nuzzling him back, kissing him now.  Whispering, “I think it’s time you lost some of those clothes.”

“Okay.”  Sam raised his arms.  Dean pulled his sweatshirt and t-shirt up over his head, then ran his hands over Sam’s bare skin.  Brushed his thumbs lightly over Sam’s nipples, Sam humming with pleasure. 

Dean was kissing him.  Sam wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck and kissed him back, thoroughly, taking his time, curling his tongue into Dean’s mouth the way he knew Dean liked.

Dean was breathing harder.  “Face me Sammy,” he whispered.

Sam shifted around to face Dean fully, straddling him as he sat in the chair.  Wrapped his arms around Dean again.  Rubbed his cock against Dean’s.  Dean’s hands were on his hips, urging Sam forward, Sam rocking against him, nudging and teasing the hard bulge between Dean’s legs (he was expert at this by now).  Dean’s head was back, his eyes closed.  Sam could see him frowning, concentrating on the sensation of Sam pressed against him on his lap.  Sam smiled.  He bent his head and started kissing Dean’s throat, nibbled at the skin under his ear.  Dean tilted his head further, giving Sam access.  Sam licked him, then thrust his hands up under Dean’s t-shirt, running them up over his lean, muscled abdomen and hard chest.  He found Dean’s nipples, pinched them.  Dean hissed.

“Want my mouth on you?” Sam whispered to him.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.

“Where?” Sam whispered.

“All over,” Dean said.

Sam smiling.  “Okay,” he said.  “Lift up.”  Dean raised his arms.  Sam pulled his brother’s t-shirt up over his head and tossed it to the floor.  Took a moment to savour the sight of Dean, bare to the waist.  Then bent forward, closed his mouth over one of Dean’s nipples, sucking it slowly into his mouth.

“Sammy, _god…”_ Dean whispered.  His eyes were closed tight, his body arched up against Sam sitting on his lap, his chest heaving.  Sam swirled his tongue around the point of Dean’s nipple, then moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment.  He cupped the hard bulge in his brother’s jeans.  “You want this?” he asked.

“…Yeah.”

Sam let himself slide down Dean’s front until he was kneeling between his brother’s legs.  His hands moved the waist of Dean’s jeans, undid the metal button.  Unzipped Dean’s fly.  “Lift up,” he said again. Dean lifted his hips.  Sam yanked Dean’s jeans and shorts down, exposing him.  Looked at his brother’s erect cock, curving hungrily up against his belly, and then at Dean’s face.  Dean was gazing down at him, a soft look in his eyes _(my Sammy)._   Sam blinked then smiled again.  “You wanna come on my face?” he asked. 

“No,” Dean said.  “You swallow it this time, Sammy.”

“Okay.”  Sam bent his head and took Dean’s cock deep into his mouth, rasping the underside of the shaft with his tongue, and closing his mouth over the blunt, satiny head of Dean’s cock.  He sucked back hard, moving his head back and forth, Dean immediately writhing in the chair, gasping.  _“God, Sammy…”_   His hands were clutched in Sam’s hair.

Sam continued feeding on him until Dean was shuddering.  He felt Dean’s cock start to pulse under his tongue and tightened the pressure of his mouth, milking Dean's cock relentlessly, Dean moaning now, a delicious, ragged sound.  Felt Dean thrust up against him, mashing his body against Sam’s face, whispering “Sam…Sammy…” and then the hot, musky, salty fluid spurting into Sam’s mouth, Sam swallowing it neatly.  Then he leaned forward, still on his knees, resting his cheek against Dean’s lower belly, allowing his brother’s cock to soften in his mouth. 

Dean’s fingers in his hair, pulling on it gently.  “Sammy…”

Sam released him, looked up again. 

Dean, gazing at him.  He wiped a thumb gently over Sam’s lips.  “That was awesome Sammy.  Your mouth, Jesus.”

Sam smiled at him.  “Makes you crazy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was stroking Sam’s cheek, his lips.  Leaned forward and put his lips against Sam’s cheek.  Whispered, “Crazy for you…dyin for you…every time.”  Then he stood up, pulling up and re-fastening his pants.  Sam stayed where he was, looking up at him.

Dean bent down, lifted Sam gently to his feet.  “Jump up,” he said.

Sam jumped into Dean’s arms, wrapping his arms around his brother’s neck and his legs around Dean’s waist, Dean’s hands cupping his ass, holding Sam closely, jouncing him.  Dean was grinning.  “That’s my baby boy,” he said.  Walked over to their bed, tossed Sam lightly down onto it.  Stood standing over Sam, smiling, his whole face happy.

Sam took in the sight of his brother, that open, happy expression, Dean’s smiling, beautiful face with its fine features, a delicate face, strikingly in contrast to Dean’s hard, leanly muscled body, bruised here and there from their training.  Sam looked at Dean, smiling down at him like that. 

He’d do anything for that smile.

“Tell me what else,” he said, watching his brother _._

Dean looking back at him, the smile fading now, his eyes darkening.  “Take off the rest of your clothes,” he said.

Sam pulled off his jeans and shorts, kicking them to the floor.  Pulled off his socks.  Lay naked on the bed on his back, looking up.

Dean eyes on him.  “Raise your legs,” he said.

Sammy slowly lifted his legs, turning his butt up like a baby about to be diapered.  He was conscious of the cool air on the exposed crack of his ass, on his asshole.  Of his own hard cock, brushing against his belly.  The cool air against his cock. 

Sam bit his lip at the sensation of this, saw Dean’s eyes move to his mouth.  “C’n I touch it, Dean?” he whispered.

“No,” Dean said. 

Sam swallowed, watching his brother.  He curled his hands against the mattress.

“Put your fingers in your ass, Sammy,” Dean whispered. 

Sam hesitated.  Then he slowly raised his right hand.  Keeping his eyes on Dean, he put the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly.  Then moved his hand between his legs.  Hitched his butt up a bit higher and placed the tips of his wet fingers against his asshole. 

“Go on,” Dean said quietly.  He was frozen in place, his eyes fixed on Sam.

Sam carefully inserted his fingers into his asshole, feeling his own warm flesh close tightly around them.  Pushed his fingers further in, wriggling his butt to accommodate them.  Dean was watching him, his eyes fierce.

“What should I do next?” Sam asked. 

“Make yourself come, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Fuck yourself with your fingers.”

Sam smiled at him.  “Okay,” he said.  He tilted his head back, eyes partially closed but still holding Dean’s gaze.  Then moved his fingers around inside of himself, pressing them against the walls of his flesh until they found that pleasure spot, the one Dean was so talented at locating and lighting up like a firecracker.  Pressed his fingers hard against that spot, feeling the sensation come to life inside him.

Dean, watching him. 

Sam started moving his fingers, massaging the inside of himself, rubbing the pads of his fingers against that spot, ruthlessly.  He was straining, starting to perspire from holding that awkward position on his back with his butt in the air, his knees bent beside his ears.  But he felt the pleasure building up inside of him, lighting up, crackling.  His cock, bobbing.

“C’n I touch it _now,_ Dean?” he whispered.

“No,” Dean said absently.  He was staring at Sam, the green eyes like lasers.  Sam rolled his head in frustration.  “Dean, please…” his cock throbbing, bobbing uselessly in the air.

“Pull on your tits, Sammy,” Dean whispered.  His own lips were parted.  Sam could see he was hard again.  Sam moved his free hand to his right nipple, grasped it between his fingers, pulling it upwards roughly, biting his lip again at the sensation.  Pinched his nipple, teasing it into a point, with the fingers of his other hand still hard up his ass, plunging in, plundering it now.  “Like this Dean?” he asked, his voice strained.

“…Yeah,” Dean whispered back, equally strained.  “Do the other one, Sammy.”

Sam moved his hand to his left nipple, pulling it, pinching it, the fingers of his other hand still pushed up inside of himself, digging and curling into the flesh of his asshole which was burning now, shrieking, whimpering.  Sam was tossing his head, his eyes closed, starting to lose himself in the overwhelming sensation of his body straining, breaking apart under its own onslaught of pleasure, feeling himself breaking, breaking apart under Dean’s relentless gaze.  “…Like what you see?” Sam gasped.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  Sam opened his eyes, glanced at Dean briefly then shut them again.  But saw Dean’s expression against his eyelids like an afterimage, branded against the darkness, that open, raw look that Dean would give Sam sometimes, like a gift. 

Sam was pretty sure Dean didn't know what he showed to Sam, in those moments, what Sam saw.  But he treasured that look, remembered it, whenever he saw it.

Sam was shuddering now, his whole body clamped down on itself, intent now only on its own rolling pleasure.  “Dean…I’m gonna come,” Sam gasped breathlessly.  _“Please…c’mere…”_

Dean was suddenly on top of him, pressing Sam heavily into the bed.  He grabbed Sam’s wrists roughly, yanking Sam’s hands away from himself, pinning them to the bed, Sam protesting at the agony of this, Dean pulling him back from the breaking brink of pleasure.  “ _Dean!”_   Dean’s mouth was on his, kissing him brutally, his tongue thrusting hard into Sam’s throat.  “Dean!” Sam gasped again, strangled.  He thrust his naked cock up helplessly against Dean’s body.  “C’mon Dean, _please…”_

Dean was kneeling between Sam’s legs, his face buried against Sam’s groin.  He opened his mouth, took Sam’s cock deep into his mouth, his tongue curling around Sam’s cock, his tight, wet mouth closing over Sam’s cock in a white hot flash of sensation, like liquid lightning.  Sam cried out, his strained voice rising harshly in his own ears.  He thrust up into Dean’s mouth, coming, coming into his brother’s mouth, feeling the muscles of Dean’s mouth working on him, swallowing.  _“Dean…”_   Sam was sobbing, shaking helplessly with that pleasure, exploding through his cock, incandescent, and then that throbbing, that other pleasure, deep inside his ass, still hungry.

Dean’s head was pillowed on Sam’s belly.  His hands still grasped Sam’s wrists, but gently now, not pinning them.  Sam freed his hands, placed them on Dean’s head.  Threaded his fingers through Dean’s short hair.

They were both quiet.

Eventually Dean stirred.  “Let’s tuck you in,” he said to Sam.  He got up.

Sam blinked at him.  “Okay,” he said softly.

Dean smiled.  Then he was pulling down the covers of the bed, rolling Sam carefully in between the sheets.  He pulled the covers up under Sam’s chin, tucking them around Sam’s body.  Then bent and kissed Sam on the lips.  “G’night.”

“Aren’t you comin to bed?” Sam asked him.

“In a bit,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna have another beer first, take a shower.”

Sam looked at him.  He wanted Dean to lie down with him now and it showed, in his expression.

“You go to sleep,” Dean said gently.  “I’ll be along in a minute.”

Sam didn’t like going to sleep without Dean beside him, but he was tired.  He felt his eyes getting heavy, in spite of himself.  Yawned.  “Okay,” he said.  Looked up at Dean, again.

Took in the sight of Dean, gazing back at him.  Those green eyes, caressing, tender, his brother’s gentle expression as he looked at Sam.  Sam felt himself coming undone under that look, the fibres and sinews of his whole being loosening exquisitely, softening.  He closed his eyes.  “Don’t be too long, Dean, okay?”

“I won’t.”  Dean’s quiet voice.  Then he was sitting on the bed, leaning over Sam, his lips against Sam’s cheek.  “Baby boy,” Dean whispered.  “You my baby, Sammy?”

“All yours,” Sam answered, agreeably. 

“Waitin for me in bed,” Dean said to him.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He felt Dean smile against his cheek.  Then his brother kissed him again.  “That’s my good Sammy,” Dean said.  Then he got up.  Sam sensed him standing over the bed, looking down at him.

Sam smiled back without opening his eyes.  He saw himself against the darkness of his eyelids, how he must look to Dean, under Dean’s gaze.

Saw himself lying there, his warm, sleepy, naked self.  Carefully wrapped, contained within his blankets, waiting for Dean to come to him.

The sharp pleasure of that, how he must look to Dean.

Sam, wrapped up like a cozy little package, put to bed because Dean wanted him there, waiting for Dean obediently because he _belonged_ to Dean now, unequivocally, and did what Dean wanted because of that.

Dean’s, all Dean’s, and waiting for him to come to bed.

Sam lay there, starting to drowse.

Eventually he heard Dean moving quietly around their room, the sound of a beer bottle cracking open.  And later, the shower running.

Sam had a final vision against his closed eyes, just before he fell asleep.

Of himself, lying on the bed that he and Dean shared, quiet.  Barely moving, with only his chest gently rising and falling.  But Dean still watching him, helpless to look away, because Sam’s smallest motion was so important to him now, so invested with meaning and worthy of direction. 

Because he felt everything about Sam now, deep within his own body.  Sam’s every gesture, word, breath, expression, all the ways that Sam _was_ with him, Dean felt them all now within his own body, like the pull of multiple threads, impossible to ignore, and all connected to Sam. 

Dean felt this.  And Sam saw this, behind his closed eyes.  And to see this was compelling, fascinating.

To see this about Dean, to know his eyes were on Sam like that, fixed on Sam with that fierce, absorbed, possessive look, helpless to look away.

_(Sammy)_

The sharp, incomparable pleasure of that.


	24. Chapter 24

There were definitely downsides though. 

One in particular.

Seriously, Dean was a _fucking control freak_ (and to be fair, he always had been, and that wasn’t so unusual either, from what Sam saw of other hunters, they tended to be control freaks, a quality that kept them alive).

But also, Dean had always felt so _responsible_ for Sam, an anxious responsibility, because Dean really _had_ been way too young to take on Sam’s raising in the way their dad expected of him (and Sam had always kind of known that, even if Dean never said anything). 

So Sam understood that too, Dean’s anxiety, translated into this need for control.  He’d been used to that, from way back when he was little.  And yeah, he’d put up with it (to help Dean out).

But now.

Talk about controlling.

Sheesh.

Now that Dean had claimed Sam for himself, he wanted to control everything about him. 

Every little thing.

Where Sam went.  What he did, during those times.  What he wore (or more to the point, _didn’t wear_ , most of the time, when Dean and he were alone).  Who he spoke to (ideally, no one except Dean…and their dad).  And what Sam _thought about_ even (ideally, just Dean, of course, and hunting).

And Sam’s body. 

Dean wanted _full_ control, over that.

Control over where Sam was, at any given time (Dean liked Sam either lying on the bed or sitting on his lap, or if their room had a couch, he liked Sam lying on the couch with his head on Dean’s lap…Sam liked this too, of course…And sometimes, if Dean was being a dick, he’d ask Sam to bend over the table or get up on his hands and knees on the bed displaying his bare ass, and stay there for awhile).  And then his control over Sam’s voice _(time to shut up now Sammy, or you’re gettin spanked)_.  His control over Sam’s hands and mouth _(open your mouth for me Sammy…let me see your tongue…put your hands above your head…that’s it…)_.  His control over Sam’s ass _(get it up there Sammy, open up…god I like seein you like that…)_.  And _full_ control over Sam’s cock _(…that’s mine, Sammy, and don’t be forgettin)._

Dean was pretty clear.  Sam’s cock belonged to him.  Sam would ignore this at his own risk.

And at first Sam _had_ ignored this, sometimes (I mean, he was going through puberty, okay, with a boner every five minutes…especially with _Dean_ on his mind, like his brother always was).

So he’d touch himself, sometimes, when Dean wasn’t around.  Jack off, like he used to (before him and Dean had started this whole thing), usually when waiting for Dean to come home from a trip with their dad, and it became too much, suddenly, and he had to do something about it, or explode.

Trouble was, Dean would usually ask him. 

And Sam never lied to him (he was scared to try – Dean could read him like a book).  He’d cross his fingers, ‘fess up, snuggle himself down on Dean’s knee, give Dean the eyes and hope his brother was in a mood to be forgiving (which usually meant a dozen or so swats over Dean’s knee and then a delicious reminder of just _why_ Sam’s cock was indubitably, irretrievably _Dean’s_ to play with…and only Dean’s).

But eventually, Dean wasn’t so forgiving.  And so Sam stopped touching his own cock, except for when he absolutely had to, and never for pleasure.  He gave it up, truly, into Dean’s possession, without further protest.  It just wasn’t worth it.  Sam had learned that lesson, alright.

Dean and their dad were out a lot now, for hours, sometimes all day, sometimes overnight, hunting or hustling pool, leaving Sam for hours by himself, Sam expected to wait in either their motel room (and always to be back there, behind a locked door, by nightfall), or maybe the local library if Dean and their dad were gone for the whole day and Sam going stir crazy cooped up in a room, with just a book and a fuzzy TV for company.

Sam would ask permission sometimes, to go to a park or wander around a nearby mall (like a _normal teenager,_ okay?  I mean…c’mon, Dean). 

And Dean would sometimes say he could (not often though, and only after Dean had checked the place out).  Dean never forgot the time when there’d been a misunderstanding, and he’d thought Sam was at the library and Sam thought Dean was okay with him going for a walk in the neighbourhood (he’d ended up reading a book at a nearby cemetery and falling asleep under a tree)…and Dean had dropped by the library to check on him and Sam wasn’t there, and Dean was frantically looking for him as evening fell, and Sam woke up once it got colder and hurried back to the motel, coming back to find Dean and their dad waiting, their dad grumpy and already half sauced (grumpy at _Dean,_ that is, for being such a mother hen, not overreacting about Sam…but also grumpy at _Sam,_ for upsetting Dean), and Dean pale with anxiety, jumping up as soon as Sam appeared.  “Sammy!  Where the fuck were you!”  And Sam apologizing (over and over), avoiding a spanking by the skin of his teeth (I mean, it _was_ just a misunderstanding, and Dean was fair).  But Dean never forgot this (and never let Sam forget it, either).  So Sam didn’t get permission to go places (other than the local library, he remembered the towns and cities their family passed through by their libraries…got to know _them,_ pretty well), that often.  And _never_ to just wander around, exploring, by himself.

Dean liked to know where Sam was.  Needed to, more like.  He always had of course…but there was more of an intensity to this requirement, now.  A requirement to know that Sam was where Dean had put him.  Sam didn’t like this much, but put up with it.

He knew Dean worried about him.  And he didn’t want Dean anxious, while his brother was out working.  Hunting with their dad.  Or bringing in the cash.

Dean was seventeen now but passed for older, acting and talking grown up (and he knew his way around bars by now, having walked into them regularly with his dad…and by himself…for at least a year).  He and their dad had become a lethal pool hustling team, coming back to the motel loaded with cash every time they went out, cheerful, his dad often slightly tipsy (Dean being the designated driver on these trips). 

Sam would watch them from the motel room window sometimes, getting out of the Impala, slamming the doors, laughing, Dean flush with triumph from the wad of cash in his pocket, always so proud to be working with their dad (preferably on a hunt of course, but also working the cons, out of necessity).

Dean never said anything, but Sam had an idea of why he and their dad were so successful at these.

By growing up, Dean had grown into his own beauty, which was, if anything, more distracting than ever.  But he wasn’t self conscious about it anymore -his face was just another hunter’s weapon now, often handy, and deployed conveniently. 

Whenever Sam went anywhere with Dean, he was conscious of the circle of fascinated admiration that had surrounded his brother like air since he was Sam’s age, but now Dean would work it, bestowing smiles on wide eyed girls and women like he was handing out money.  Sam would tease him about it (sometimes not so cheerfully) and Dean would just shrug and wink at him.  “Candy store,” he would drawl.  Then, his voice lowering, “But don’t worry Sammy, they might be candy…but you’re whiskey.”

And Sam seeing his brother’s eyes darken on him, would feel the electric thrum of those words right through his body.  He’d stare at Dean, wordless, until sometimes Dean would grab his arm and they’d head straight back to the motel, or (if Dean had the Impala –and their dad was letting him use it more and more these days) drive somewhere out of sight…the back seat of the Impala was very convenient.

But chicks weren’t the only ones who stared at Dean.  Guys did too, plenty.  Sam had noticed this before as well, but never really thought much about it until after he and had Dean started their thing.

Men followed Dean with their eyes all the time.  And all types of men too, young, old, well dressed, scruffy, effeminate (the ones their dad called pansies), and men’s men types who you’d _never_ expect would look at another guy like that, the way they stared so openly at Dean…unconsciously almost, like they couldn’t help themselves. 

Dean was different with the men who looked at him, like that.  He’d meet their eyes unsmiling, then look away, his face distant and cold.  But Sam didn’t think that discouraged them.  If anything, the opposite.  Sam would glance back, sometimes, after Dean and he passed one of these guys (and after Dean had given them his ice cold glare of death) and he’d see them turned back, still looking, staring after Dean consideringly.  Sam thought it was kind of funny, actually.  But Dean didn’t.

He’d made that pretty clear.

Sam and Dean were crossing a downtown street in a small city in Indiana, the cold wind cutting through their worn army surplus coats.  Passing an older dude, mid forties maybe, expensive wool trench coat, fancy leather briefcase.  He walked towards Sam and Dean through the intersection, glancing at the two of them casually, then slowing, staring at Dean openly. 

Sam stared back.  The three of them approached each other, the man still staring at his brother (he’d flicked his eyes over Sam and dismissed him), Dean meeting the man’s look briefly then doing his distant cold gaze thing.  They passed each other.  Then Sam glanced back curiously over his shoulder.  The man was stopped in his tracks, still staring at Dean.  He was ignoring the crossing light, now flashing.  Sam snorted with amusement.

Dean wasn’t amused.

“Don’t _look_ at him, Sammy, what you _doin?”_ Dean hissed.

“He’s gonna get hit by a car, he keeps standin in the intersection like that,” Sam answered.

“Make the world a better place,” Dean muttered.

“Don’t be mean,” Sam said smiling (it _was_ kind of fun teasing Dean…he liked seeing if he could make his brother blush).  “It’s not _his_ fault.  You just gotta accept it Dean, people love you…all _sorts_ of people.”

“Shuddup Sammy, you don’t know what you’re talkin about,” Dean said shortly.

“Sure I do, big brother,” Sam answered cheerfully.  Whispered to Dean, “I know exactly how that guy feels.”

Dean stopped, staring at him.  “Don’t say that Sammy, you’re different from those pervs.”

“How?” Sam asked him.

Dean glared at him.  “Because…you just are, that’s how,” he said.  “Now drop it.  And I don’t want you lookin at them anymore, understand?”

“C’mon Dean, what’s the harm?” Sam asked him.  “It’s funny.”

“It’s not,” Dean said tightly.  “Pervs look at me, fine.  I c’nt help it.  But from now on if I ever catch _you_ lookin back…you’re gettin a spankin and I mean a serious one.”

Sam wasn’t smiling now.  “You gotta be kiddin.”

“Do I look like I’m kiddin?” Dean didn’t look like he was kidding.  “I’m tellin you Sammy, you keep your eyes to yourself or as soon as we’re home you’re fetchin the hairbrush.”

The hairbrush.  Sam winced, involuntarily.  Dean didn’t punish him with his belt anymore (he’d promised he wouldn’t and kept his word) but the wooden handled hairbrush had made an appearance shortly after they’d started school, last fall.  Spankings with the hairbrush weren’t as awful as the whippings with the belt, but they weren’t any fun, either.  Although thankfully, Dean didn’t spank him like that too often.  He saved the hairbrush for special occasions.

“…And if I ever catch one of them lookin at _you…_ he’s goin to the hospital,” Dean continued, his voice hard.  “So unless you want that happenin, make sure you don’t encourage them.  Watch yourself.  Got that?"

Wow.

“Fine,” Sam muttered.

“What was that?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam answered, subdued.

“Good.”

“I dunno why you’re so upset,” Sam said.

“…Because I’ve had about _my fill_ of those assholes,” Dean answered savagely.  Then, in a lower voice, “Fuckin marks.”

Sam looked at him curiously.  Dean was staring off into the distance, a hard look in his eyes.  His mouth was set in a grim line, like he was contemplating an unpleasant, unavoidable task.

Sam thought about this.  Then he got it, suddenly.  Saw it, as clearly as if it was happening, in front of him.

Dean and their dad in one of those bars they went to, to hustle pool.  A loud low room, smelling of beer, populated with men drinking, talking, gathered around the pool tables, men casually dressed in jeans and workshirts, perhaps the occasional suit kicking back after a rough day at the office, shirt sleeves rolled up, minus the tie, maybe some bikers in their black leather club jackets (Dean and their dad didn’t work their con in the kinds of bars you’d take a date to).  Sam saw how Dean and their dad would be, talking loudly, kidding with each other, laughing, Dean maybe acting a little drunk as they set up their game, or ambled over to another game in progress.  Deliberately drawing attention to themselves, or rather, drawing attention to _Dean,_ drawing every eye in the room to Dean, those eyes that weren’t fixed on him already, that is.

And Sam saw how Dean would put himself on display, his dark gold hair glinting under the dim lights, his green eyes flashing.  His pale, delicate face, with its startling beauty that wasn’t soft at all, not at all feminine, but beautiful nonetheless, no other word for it.  Holding his face up for display, that distracting beauty glowing in the bar’s plain, unadorned space, almost eerie, like a streetlight on a foggy night, jarring every eye, that unnerving halo of beauty surrounding him like always, but so uneasy in that context, so startlingly out of place. 

And then Dean’s eyes, casually scanning the room.  Locating the mark.  Focusing in on the mark, drawing him in.

And Sam saw Dean’s expression, that cool, distant gaze so characteristic of his brother, clashing eyes with the mark then looking away.  But not the icy, disdainful expression Sam saw him use when he walked with Sam on the street.  In that room that green gaze would be only…somewhat cool, somewhat distant. 

A challenge. 

Irresistible, to the right kind of type.  The mark.

And Sam saw how Dean and their dad would play the poor sucker between them, drawing him unsuspecting into an increasingly expensive series of bets.  Not needing to flash any cash even, to encourage the guy to lay his money down because _Dean_ was the encouragement, the implied reward, the unspoken security of the bet.  And Sam saw all the different ways their dad and Dean could work this, with their dad playing the part of threat or protector or stranger or disapproving father or…whatever he needed to be, for Dean, for Dean to secure the fascinated attention, the eventual buy-in, of the mark. 

Their mark’s buy-in, to the game and maybe afterwards.  His buy-in to that tease, so expertly played.

Dean and their dad, playing their marks, hooking them like fish.  And inevitably, relieving them of their cash.

Inevitable, because it was _Dean_ who was the bait.  Irresistible to any fish.

That face.  Irresistible.

Sam saw how the con would work, alright.  And he saw how his dad had probably figured it out the first time Dean had stepped into a bar.

Dean, his beautiful son, as bait.  A proven asset on a hunt and now for the cons.  An asset too useful to pass up.

Sam saw how their dad’s mind worked, alright.  He never had any trouble, seeing that.

And looking at Dean now, at his brother’s set, tight expression, he saw the cost of that, too.  The price Dean paid, for that useful, distracting face.  For being useful, like that.  The price Dean would never talk about, would deny, if you called him on it.

Because Dean accepted the situation.  It was professional, to him, and a way he could help their dad, help their family.  Dean, proud to be working cons with their dad, accepting the personal cost to himself (or pretending that it didn't exist).  But it still made him angry, though.  That was clear.

Sam observed his brother thoughtfully.

Dean glanced at him.  “What?”

“Nothin.”

“Remember what I said,” Dean said warningly.  “You keep your eyes to yourself.”

“I will.”  Sam lowered his eyes, obediently.

They walked on in silence. 

Eventually Dean asked, “What you thinkin about?”

“Nothin,” Sam answered.

“Don’t give me that,” Dean said.  “You’re thinkin about _somethin.”_

“About _you,_ okay?” Sam said.  “How awesome you are.”  He glanced at Dean sidelong.

Dean was grinning.  “Well that’s about what you _should_ be thinkin Sammy,” he said, cheerfully now.  “Glad to hear it.”  He paused.  Then said, “Say…why’nt we get you a treat?  Want some ice cream?”

“Ice _cream?”_   Sam said incredulously.  “Jeez Dean, it’s thirty below.” 

His brother shrugged.  “So?”

“So…” Sam said, “It’s not ice cream weather.  And I thought we were gettin groceries.”

Dean shrugged again.  “We have enough money for a treat.  Lemme get you somethin nice.  Where you wanna go?”

Sam thought about this.  “Um…okay…” hesitated again.  Then said, “What about Starbucks?”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “…What?”

“Starbucks,” Sam repeated.

“What’s that?” Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “You know…Starbucks!  That new coffee place, out of Seattle.  Haven’t you seen them?”

Dean looked at him.  “Aren’t you a little young to be drinkin coffee?”

Sam snorted.  “Seriously?  C’mon Dean, I’ve been wantin to go.  They have armchairs inside you c’n sit down on ‘n’ hang out, just like in a library.  It’s neat.  I saw one up the street over there.”

“Well…okay,” Dean said dubiously.  “But I was thinkin more like, Dairy Queen.”

“No, c’mon,” Sam said enthusiastically.  He started heading in the direction of the Starbucks, Dean a step behind.  Sam reached back for Dean’s hand, unthinking, and then stopped himself, glancing self consciously around to see if they’d been noticed.   Glanced back at Dean.

Dean was gazing at him, his eyes soft.  “Little coffee drinkin nerd,” he said, smiling.  “Who do you think you are, a college kid?”

Sam grinned back at him.  “They have all sorts of cool coffees,” he said.  “I want to try a cappuccino.”

“…A what?”

Sam rolled his eyes again.  _“Cappuccino,”_ he repeated.  “It’s like this Italian coffee.  They make it with this special machine, with steamed milk.  And you c’n put chocolate flakes on top.  I’ve been wantin to try one ever since I read about them in this story.  You’ll love it Dean, c’mon.”

“Uh huh.”  Dean didn’t sound convinced, but followed Sam down the street cooperatively.   They entered the Starbucks.

Dean was staring at the blackboard behind the counter, with the Starbuck’s menu offerings written out in white chalk.  “What’s a ‘tall?’” he asked the girl at the cash.  She glanced at him casually, then froze, staring.  Dean narrowed his eyes at her, irritated (Sam grinned).  The girl swallowed, then answered, “That means a large coffee.  `Short’ is for a small coffee.” 

Dean snorted.  “Okay.  Then get me a large coffee.  Black please.”  Gestured to Sam, beside him.  “And he’ll have a…cappuccino.”

“Dark or light?” the girl asked.  She was staring at Dean blankly.

“…What?”

“Dark or light _roast?”_ the girl asked.  Staring at him.

Dean frowned at her. 

“He'll get dark roast,” Sam said.  The girl dragged her eyes away from Dean and turned to Sam, blinking.  Sam smiled at her winningly.  “And could I please have chocolate sprinkles on mine?” he said.

The girl nodded, smiling back at him, “Sure.”  She punched their order into the cash.

“And I’ll have a slice of pie,” Dean said.  “You got any cherry?”

“Sorry,” the girl said to him, “we don’t have pie here.”

“No pie.” Dean said.  He frowned again.  “Okay…then I’ll…get a donut. Chocolate.”

The girl looked distressed.  “I’m sorry…we don’t have donuts either.”

“A coffee shop…and no donuts or pie?” Dean said.  He didn’t sound impressed.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said (and she really did sound sorry).  “Can I get you something else?” 

“He’ll have a vanilla bean scone,” Sam said (helping the girl out).

“What’s _that?”_ Dean asked.

“Just order it Dean!” Sam hissed.

“Okay okay,” Dean said.  “One of those vanilla…whatevers.  You want somethin to eat, Sammy?”

“No thanks.”

“I guess that’s it then,” Dean said.  He took out his wallet, smiled at the girl, finally.  Sam saw her melt, her eyes fixed helplessly on his brother.  He sighed.

Now the two of them seated in matching armchairs, a low table between them.  Sam sipping from the large cappuccino cup enthusiastically.  “This is great!”

“You’ve gotta milk moustache,” Dean said sourly.

“Oops,” Sam said cheerfully.  He put his tongue out, made a point of licking the milk foam carefully off his upper lip.  “Mmm.”

Dean’s eyes were on Sam’s mouth.  “You little tease,” he muttered.

Sam smiled at him.  “Thanks for bringing me here,” he said sweetly.

“Uh huh.”  Dean was munching on the vanilla bean scone.  Nodded at Sam.  “This is pretty good.”

Sam smiled, leaned back comfortably in his armchair.  “This is…great, Dean.  I could hang out here all day, readin.  It’s like a library with food.”

“Well, don’t get too attached,” Dean said.  “I don’t want you comin here, by yourself.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.  “Why not?”

“Cause…you don’t know who’s in here, that’s why.”

Sam snorted.  “You mean, like these scary _coffee drinker_ types?”

“Yeah.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Dean, Jesus.  I c’n handle myself, you know that.  And in _Starbucks_ …there’s nobody to handle.”

“I don’t care,” Dean said stubbornly.  “I don’t want you comin back here without me, ‘n’ I mean it.”

“…You never let me go anywhere,” Sam said after a moment, resentfully.

“That’s not true,” Dean said.  “I let you go to the library.”

“That’s the _only_ place you let me go,” Sam said.  “’N’ only if I ask you first.”

“…So?”

“So…I’m too old to have to ask your permission every time I want to go somewhere Dean, c’mon.”

“How old you are has nothin to do with it,” Dean said.

“Then what is it then?” Sam asked him.  “Don’t you trust me?”

Dean blinked.  “Of course I trust you, Sammy.”

Sam sighed.  “Then I don’t get it,” he said.

Dean was looking away from him.  “It’s just, it’s…better this way,” he said.  “Okay Sammy?”

“Better for _you,_ you mean,” Sam said.

Dean looked back at him, suddenly.  Sam was sipping his coffee.  He’d been about to say something else (sarcastic), but stopped at the sight of Dean’s expression.  “I just like to know where you are, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.  “Is that so bad?”

Sam took a breath.  Dean’s dark green eyes, on him.  Sam closed his own eyes, defeated.  “No,” he said, sighing.  “That’s not so bad.”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “Tell you what.  You really like this place, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“Okay,” Dean said generously.  “You c’n come here ‘n’ hang out, if you want.  Just check with me first, okay?  So I know I c’n find you either here or the library, if you need a break from our room.”

Sam smiled at him.  “Okay.  Thanks Dean.”

“Sure.”

Sam sipped his coffee.  They were both quiet.

Then Dean asked, “What you thinkin about?”

Sam looked at him.  “What would you do?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Dean said.

“What would you do if I went somewhere without checkin with you first?” Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him.  “You really have to ask?”

Sam looked at him silently.

Dean sighed.  “You’d have a sore ass, that’s what.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully.  “Even if it was just to the Starbucks?” he said.

 _“Anywhere,”_ Dean said.  He sounded irritated now.  “You _know_ that Sammy, so don’t push it, okay?”

Sam didn’t push it.  What was the point of arguing with _(his fucking control freak of a brother)_ Dean right now?  It would just end in a fight (and probably a spanking, later).  And Dean _had_ been nice, bringing him here.  And he wanted to enjoy his coffee.

After shopping, Sam and Dean walked back to their downtown hostel (weekly rates), the early night falling.  Let themselves into their cold room, carrying plastic grocery bags.  “What you want for dinner?” Dean asked.

“C’n you make spaghetti?” Sam said.

“Sure.”  Dean took off his coat.  “Help put these away while I put the noodles on.”

“Is Dad eatin with us?” Sam asked.

“Nah,” Dean said.  “He told me he’d be out.  But he’s comin back later.  He ‘n’ I are goin out tonight.”

“To a bar?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“Make some money,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”  Dean didn’t say anything else.  He left the room, carrying a plastic wrapped package of spaghetti noodles and a jar of sauce, going down the hall to the shared kitchenette.

Sam finished putting the rest of the groceries away.  Hung up his and Dean’s coats.  Put some bowls and forks on the table, got a beer for Dean out of the small bar fridge.  Then he flopped down on their bed, stared up at the ceiling.

“What you thinkin about?” Dean had asked him earlier (and he’d asked Sam twice…Dean always curious about what Sam was thinking).

And Sam had told him, but not all of it.

Sam had been thinking about Dean spanking him. 

Dean had spanked him all his life, ever since Sam could remember.  He would whack Sam casually on the ass, the big brother giving his little brother what-for, sometimes out of irritation, sometimes to shut Sam up, sometimes to make a point.  And then later, more deliberately, standing in for their dad (Dean would occasionally spank Sam instead of whipping him to give him a break…Sam understood this, and appreciated it).  And then in the months leading up to…whatever this was, between them, Sam riling Dean up and getting spanked for it, Sam encouraging these spankings as a way of getting close to Dean, of teasing him…knowing Dean was getting bothered and flustered with Sam’s ass turned up over his knee _(getting turned on)_ …that had been pretty rewarding.

But now.

Dean was spanking Sam more now.  And he didn’t need much of a reason (his standing reason was that he _could,_ and it was good for Sam to remember this).

And Sam didn’t enjoy these spankings, particularly.  He put up with them (because it was _Dean,_ giving them to him), but he could have done without them.

And he didn’t really feel he could ask Dean to stop (I mean, what if he asked Dean to stop and Dean said _no?_   What would Sam do then?). 

So he put up with the spankings.  Accepted them.  Tried to accept their necessity.

To make Dean’s control of him easier.  For it to go more smoothly, for both of them.

Dean often liked to spank Sam in the mornings, before school. 

Sam would wake up slowly, snuggled in Dean’s arms, his brother’s lips against his neck.  Dean would be stroking him, murmuring to him, kissing him, stroking his cock, the pleasure rising, eventually Sam shuddering in Dean’s arms, coming helplessly under Dean’s hands or mouth.  And then the two of them getting up, eating breakfast (Sam sometimes sitting on Dean’s knee).  And then showering (often together), then brushing their teeth at the sink, Dean shaving (Sam still smooth skinned, but looking eagerly at his face every day now for signs of a beard). 

And then getting dressed for the day.  Except sometimes Dean would say, “Don’t get dressed yet, Sammy.  Wait for me.”

And Sam would stop, still naked (maybe with a towel around his waist), staring at Dean as Dean finished getting dressed.

“We’re goin to warm you up at bit before we leave,” Dean would say as he pulled on his jeans and tshirt.  “Give you somethin to think about while you’re sittin in class, today.”

“Why?” Sam said.  “What’ve I done?”

Dean smiling at him, eyes twinkling.  “Nothin…much,” he said.  “Other than bein your usual little self.  But it’s good to have a reminder, now ‘n’ then, about what _could_ happen if you get casual about mindin what I say.  Makin me get out that hairbrush.  Think of it like an investment in makin somethin _not_ happen.  Like maintenance.”

“But you just spanked me three days ago,” Sam said.  “Don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

Dean, not smiling now.  “Just the fact that you’re arguin, Sammy, is a sign that your ass needs some attention.  Now get it over here.”

Sam walking over slowly, his stomach fluttering.  I mean, it was just _Dean,_ and Sam knew his brother wouldn’t really hurt him (too much), but it wasn’t like the spankings were pleasant.  “Where do you want me?”

Dean sat down (on the chair, or couch, or bed), and Sam followed him.  “Drop that,” Dean said, indicating the towel, Sam removing it from around his waist, silently.  “C’mere,” Dean would say, and Sam now draping himself carefully over Dean’s knee, feeling Dean’s hand coming around his waist to clamp him in place.  

Then a pause.  Sam would wait tensely over Dean’s knee, conscious of his brother’s eyes on him, on his bare, upturned ass.  Then Dean’s other hand, rubbing the sensitive cheeks, slapping them lightly like he was warming them up.

“You ready, Sammy?”

“…Yes Dean.”

“You understand why I’m doin this?”

Sam swallowing.  “Because I need it, sometimes.”

Dean’s voice.  “That’s right Sammy.  And you’ll thank me for it after, won’t you?”

“Yes Dean.”

“Uh huh.”  Then Dean’s hand, coming down hard on Sam’s ass, spanking one cheek then the other, his hand landing on Sam’s ass briskly, expertly, with smart slapping blows, covering the surface of each cheek thoroughly. 

Sam starting to wince, the pain building in his butt, but trying not to wriggle, trying to keep silent.

Dean, spanking him.  Sam cringing now, quivering.  Dean, still spanking him, with steady, burning, rhythmic blows, Sam biting his lip now.  And finally, his voice rising, helplessly. “Ow, Dean!  _Please!_   Enough already!”

Dean stopping, Sam sighing with relief.  Then Dean’s cold voice.  “What?”

Sam swallowing.  “I mean…that’s enough now, Dean, okay?  Please?”

“Did I say you could speak?” 

“No, but…”

“You need this more ‘n’ I thought.”  Dean starting to spank him again, harder this time.

Sam cringing, tears rising now.  “Ow, Dean _please!”_

“You don’t want this to go on, you keep quiet until I say.”  Dean, spanking him, very hard now.  “Got that?”

Sam nodding miserably.  His butt wriggling now, helplessly.

Finally, the spanking over.  Dean’s hand resting lightly on Sam’s sore butt.  Rubbing it, again.

“What do you have to say now Sammy?”

“Thank you.”  Sam blinking back tears.

Dean’s hand, rubbing the burning, tingling flesh of Sam’s butt.  “Nice colour we got here,” he said.  “How’s it feel, Sammy?”

“Sore,” Sam whispered.

Dean, patting him.  “That’s okay.  Sore is good for you.  And what’ll you be thinkin about, while you’re sittin on that sore butt, today?”

“You,” Sam whispered.

“That’s right,” Dean said, whispering back to him now.  “Thinkin about me…’n’ what we’re gonna do… after I pick you up from school.  That right, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  He’d closed his eyes.  His cock was hard, rubbing against Dean’s lap, and he knew Dean could feel it. 

And then Dean’s hand between his legs, grasping Sam’s cock, pulling on it gently.  Sam moaned.  “But you’re gonna leave this alone, between now ‘n’ then, aren’t you Sammy?”

“Yes Dean.”

“Because you don’t touch yourself, without my say.  Do you?”

“No.”

“Because you’ll know what’ll happen, if you do.”

“Yes Dean.”

Dean, patting him.  “That’s my good Sammy.  Good baby boy.  Up you get now.”

Sam clambering to his feet, standing in front of Dean, his cheeks flushed.  Dean smiling at him.  Then bending down, taking Sam’s hard cock into his mouth gently, pulling on it.  Sam arching his back, breath hissing, rocking his hips towards Dean, in spite of himself.  Dean releasing him, looking up, smiling.  “That’ll do for now,” he said.  “You c’n get dressed, Sammy.”

Sam turning away from him, putting his clothes on, conscious of his butt throbbing and stinging, his underwear rasping against his raw skin.  And then sitting, later, shifting his sore butt around uncomfortably against the hard wooden seat of the desk at school, thinking about Dean like Dean said he would, his cock rubbing against his pants. 

“How’s the butt?” Dean asking him at lunch, he and Sam sitting on the bleachers at the athletic field at Sam’s school, all by themselves in the cold winter wind.  “Sore, what do _you_ think?” Sam said (rather resentfully – he’d had a tough morning).

“That’s good,” Dean said cheerfully.  “Keeps you primed.  We’ll fix you up tonight Sammy, with some cream.  I’ll rub it into your little ass, you’ll like that.”  Lowered his voice.  “Rub it up inside you…you’ll like that Sammy, won’t you?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said dutifully (he knew Dean liked him sounding like that, like Sam doing what Dean said was his job…which it _was,_ anyway).  And he _was_ looking forward to what Dean would do to him that night, sort of (it was a bit like looking forward to a thunderstorm, Dean’s greased fingers fucking his helpless ass, relentless, with Sam shuddering, crying out).  Another day in the life of Sam.

Sam stared out at the deserted athletic field, towards his latest school.  Thought about the other kids in there, going about their own lives, thinking about…he didn’t know what other kids thought about actually, but for sure it wasn’t monsters or deadly spirits and the hunting of them, and the price paid for that in alcohol and grief.  Or the getting by like he and his brother and his dad did, existing day to day, living just inside the law (most of the time). 

Or about…dealing with someone like Dean, his beautiful, overwhelming, needy, possessive big brother, obsessed with Sam, obsessed with directing every facet of Sam’s life.  Being with Dean.  That _was_ a job, in itself (although to be fair, Sam had asked for it…sort of).  Did any of those kids he sat in class with, could they even _begin_ to be able to comprehend Sam’s life?  He doubted it.

Sam felt sad, suddenly.  His life.  He’d asked for Dean (like Dean had reminded him), and he’d gotten what he asked for.  Gotten what he’d wanted ( _Dean,_ Sam’s compensation for everything else…).  But he’d traded something for what he’d received.  Traded something away.  Sam wasn’t sure just what it was he’d given up, but he felt the loss now, felt it deep within his body.  A gap now, where something had been, before.

Dean standing up.  “I gotta get goin,” he said.  “Lemme walk you back.”  Sam nodding, rising, walking silently back with Dean towards his school.  Sitting out the rest of the afternoon, looking at the clock, conscious of his sore butt.

Sam lay on their bed in the cold, cigarette-smelling hotel room, waiting for Dean to return with their dinner, thinking about this.  Dean liked keeping him a little sore, he realized.  Used the spankings to keep Sam focused (on Dean).  They weren't just to encourage Sam to be obedient.  And Dean hadn’t spanked him in over a week.  Sam could sense that he was due.

Dean was back in their room, a pot of spaghetti in one hand.  “C’mon Sammy, let’s eat.”

Sam got up off the bed, went over to the table, sat down.  Dean was doling out the spaghetti.  “That enough?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The two of them, eating.  “When’re you goin out?” Sam asked.

“As soon as dad gets here,” Dean said.  “I’m expectin him within the hour.  ’N’ we’re gonna be back late.  You go on to bed.  Don’t wait up for me.”

“Okay.”

“What’ll you do, while I’m out?” Dean asked casually.

Sam looked at him.  “I…dunno,” he said.  “Homework, maybe.  Although that c’n wait (it was Friday night).  Maybe I’ll finish my book.”

“That sounds fine,” Dean said.  “Just make sure that’s all you do.  I want you ready for me, when I get home tonight.”  He sounded so casual as he said this.

“I won’t do anythin like…that, Dean, I promise,” Sam said.  He was starting to get tense.

Dean finished his spaghetti, downed the rest of his beer.  “You done?” he asked Sam.  Sam nodded.  Dean stood, collected his and Sam’s bowls.  “I’m washin up,” he said.  “While I’m gone, I want you over the table, pants down.  You c’n wait for me like that.”

Sam sat there, his stomach fluttering.  “I promised I wouldn’t do anythin, Dean,” he said.

Dean smiled at him.  “I know,” he said.  “This is just reinforcement.  I got the feelin that you needed some, today.  Go on, now.”

Sam slowly stood up.  Then he bent over the table, resting his upper body on it.  Reached back and pulled down his pants and shorts, exposing his butt. 

“Pull up your shirt,” Dean said.  Sam rolled up his shirt, making sure his butt was fully exposed.  Felt Dean’s warm hand on one cheek, patting it.  “Good boy,” Dean said.  “I’ll be right back.  Stay there.”

Sam nodded, closed his eyes.  Waited the long minutes until Dean’s return, feeling goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of his bare butt in the cold room.

Dean was back.  Sam sensed him, pausing at the door, looking at the sight Sam made.  Then Dean walked over.  “You look good like that Sammy,” he said.  “I should put you up like that more often.”

Sam didn’t say anything (although he wanted to).

Heard Dean behind him.  Dean had pulled his sweatshirt off.  Then his hand on Sam’s butt, swatting him lightly.  “Let’s get you warmed up a bit.”  The light slaps continued.  Sam felt his cold flesh heating up.  He moved, involuntarily.

Dean stopped.  “It looks like you’re ready,” he said.  “You ready Sammy?”

“Yes Dean.”

“Here we go then.”  Dean began spanking him, methodically, thoroughly, the familiar pain rising, Sam starting to bounce on his toes.

Dean, spanking him.  Sam was gasping now.

“Had enough now, Sammy?” Dean asked.  A pause.

“That’s…that’s up to you,” Sam said breathlessly.

“Good answer, Sammy,” Dean was smiling, Sam could hear it.  “We’ll give you a few more.  Want you thinkin about this, while I’m out.  Keep you from gettin tempted.”  The spanking resumed again.

Sam’s butt was wriggling now.  He was bouncing up and down on his toes, embarrassed to be doing this, but helpless not to.  Trying not to say anything that would get him in trouble (Dean had been known to double a spanking, if Sam started to complain).

Finally, it was over.  Sam was gasping, his butt steaming.  But his traitorous cock was hard, pulsing between his legs.  He was dying for Dean to touch it.

Dean didn’t.  “You c’n get up now, Sammy,” he said.  “Pull up your pants.”

“Dean-“

“Up now, Sammy,” Dean said inexorably.  “I’ll take care of you later.  Dad’s comin any minute.”

Sam got up, pulled his pants and shorts up over his sore butt and hard, throbbing cock.  He felt tears in his eyes, of frustration this time.  “Dean, c’mon—“

Dean, looking at him.  “You askin for the hairbrush?”

Sam looked down, shaking his head.

Dean smiling at him, reaching out to ruffle Sam’s hair.  “You be patient,” he said.  “I’ll be back before you know it.  And we c’n sleep in tomorrow, it’ll be great.”  Leaned forward, kissed Sam on the mouth.  “’N’ you make sure you’re not wearin anything, when I get back,” he murmured.  “You know I like crawlin in with you, like that.  Okay Sammy?”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.  Dean’s mouth on him, weakening him, like always.  He put his arms around his brother’s waist.  “Be careful, tonight.”

Dean’s voice, serious now.  “You know I’m always careful Sammy.  I’ve got you to come back to, remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  He was leaning into Dean now, his brother’s hard, warm body.  Dean’s arms were around him.  Dean was kissing the side of Sam’s head, his temple, his cheek.  “SammySam,” Dean murmuring.

Sam raised his head, turning his face up to Dean’s.  Found Dean’s mouth, kissing him, kissing Dean’s mouth, curling his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  Dean’s hands coming up to cup Sam’s face, kissing Sam back, intently now, his lips hard against Sam’s mouth.  His body, pressed up now, tight against Sam’s, his hard cock pressed between Sam’s legs.  Sam arching against him, rubbing.

A knock at the door.  “Dean?  You ready?”

The brothers springing apart, staring at each other, breathing hard.  Dean’s eyes on Sam.  “Yeah, Dad,” he said.

Their dad’s voice.  “Hurry up, son.  I’ll be out in the car.”

“Okay,” Dean answered.  He was staring intently at Sam, his eyes that dark green, the dark, shadowed green that Sam loved.  His chest was heaving. He looked frustrated.  Sam grinned at him.  Then, without breaking their gaze, he put a finger slowly in his mouth.  Sucked on it.  Dean’s eyes, narrowing.  “Don’t be a tease,” he said shortly.

Sam took his wet finger out of his mouth, held it up, looked at it.  “I’m not bein a tease,” Sam replied, thoughtfully.  He glanced at Dean, who was scowling at him.  Then rubbed his wet finger over Dean’s lips.  Watched his brother’s face soften.  “I’m just givin you somethin to think about,” Sam said.  Put his finger into Dean’s mouth, the warm wet enclosure of Dean’s mouth that gave Sam such pleasure.  Stroked the pad of his finger lightly over the rough surface of Dean’s tongue, Dean’s eyes closing. 

“You think about this, while you’re out,” Sam whispered.  He took his finger out of Dean’s mouth, trailed it lightly down Dean’s throat.  “You think about me…waitin for you…no clothes on…bein good.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He stepped forward, reaching out to grasp Sam’s arms.

Sam stepped back.  “You gotta go,” he said.  “Dad’s waitin.”  He smiled at Dean sweetly.

Dean dropped his arms.  Glared at Sam.  “Rest up,” he said ominously.  Then bent and kissed Sam again.  Sam opened his mouth cooperatively, leaned in.  Felt Dean shudder.  Then Dean wrenched himself away, pulled his sweatshirt roughly over his head.  Grabbed his coat.  “Keep the door locked,” he said over his shoulder.  “Don’t let anyone in.”

“I won’t.”

“’N’ don’t go out.  Not even down the hall.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “I _won’t,_ Dean, god.”

Dean nodded at him.  “Good.”  He left.

Left alone, Sam went and flopped down on the bed, wincing at the fresh pain in his butt.  He grabbed his latest book from the nightstand, flipped through it briefly, then stopped.  Stared up at the dingy ceiling.

Thought about Dean, Dean and their dad, out working their con.

Thought about Dean coming back in the early hours of the morning, letting himself into their dark room.  Coming to over to their bed, letting himself into their bed, naked, smelling of smoke and alcohol.  Snuggling up against Sam, Sam sleepy, grumbling a little (to make a point), Dean ignoring this, kissing him, kissing Sam’s mouth, his face, pressing kisses over Sam’s whole body.  Working Sam’s whole body with his mouth and hands until Sam was trembling, his legs spread wide, either lying on the bed on his back or up on his hands and knees, Dean’s hot mouth on Sam’s asshole, Sam moaning.  And then Dean’s fingers inside of him, greasy from the pot of Vaseline that Dean kept under their bed, working him until Sam was mewling, his ass writhing, begging Dean shamelessly to make him come, please, please, to put Sam out of his agony and to make him come already, to let Sam come.

And on and on, Sam the aggressor now, working Dean’s cock with his mouth, working him until Dean was shuddering and moaning Sam’s name.  (And then…Sam putting his own greased up fingers into Dean’s ass, not saying anything, just tapping Dean’s butt, the two of them looking at each other and then Dean rolling over, cooperatively.  Sam pushing his fingers deep into Dean’s butt, fucking his brother expertly with his fingers the way he'd learned from Dean, Dean moaning, writhing, coming eventually, Sam’s other hand on Dean’s cock…Sam had started doing this to Dean towards the end of last summer…he’d sensed Dean had wanted it but would never ask him, so he’d just started doing it). 

The two of them, conscious only of this dark room, this bed, each other, their hard straining bodies.  Not needing anything, anything other than this.  Nothing but this.

Sam closed his eyes, seeing this in his mind’s eye.  His hand went to his cock, involuntarily, fingers lightly stroking over it.  It was still hard, painfully throbbing, under his pants.  He moved his hand away quickly, cursing himself.  That forgetful touch wasn’t enough to confess to Dean when he’d ask Sam, later, was it?  (Dean would sit down on a chair after any extended absence and put Sam between his knees.  Then he’d ask Sam pointed questions about what Sam had been doing while Dean was gone, looking closely at Sam’s face.  Sam would find it impossible to lie during these sessions, or leave anything out.  He’d feel his pupils dilating, his face flushing, under that piercing hunter’s gaze.  And if Dean thought Sam was trying to avoid saying something, or _lying_ …the biggest no-no of all… _that’s_ when he’d have Sam fetch the hairbrush).

Sam thought about this.  He’d pushed his hands into the mattress, safely away from his cock.  It _was_ probably better to tell Dean, when he asked Sam the next morning.  After all, it had been more or less an accident, touching himself like that.  Dean would understand. He was strict, but he was fair.

Sam read his book until he was tired.  Then got up and turned off the lights.  Undressed, folding his clothes neatly and putting them away.  Walked naked to the bathroom and washed himself off with a wet cloth, paying special attention to the skin between his ass and up into his asshole (Dean liked him clean).  Brushed his teeth.  Then turned off the lights and crawled into bed, curling his naked self up into a ball for warmth in the cold room.  Waited for Dean.

The image of Dean’s beautiful face, smiling, in Sam’s mind.  Dean returning, happy, gazing at Sam lying tucked up in bed, naked, waiting just for him.  Just like Dean had asked him to.

Sam waited, huddled under the covers, for Dean to come home.


	25. Chapter 25

Doing what you were told.

Like a soldier, following orders, no questions asked.  Because _not_ following orders could get you killed.  Could get your family killed.  Following orders…doing what you were told…that was a sacred trust.

That’s how they’d been raised.

And if you didn’t follow orders to the _letter…_ you earned yourself a beating.

That’s how they’d been raised, both him and Dean.

And Dean believed, _truly_ believed…that this was right way to be raised.

Dean was a lot better at following orders than Sam.  He always had been.  And he’d taken their dad’s harsh beatings without protest, right up until that last one, when he’d told their dad that things would be different from now on, that he was grown up now and would be responsible for his own decisions.

But Sam wasn’t grown up yet.

And Dean believed in obedience just as much as their dad did.  Any disobedience…your ass would pay.

So when Dean punished Sam for disobedience, or defiance (their dad called it insubordination), he believed wholeheartedly that Sam deserved it.  And he took the responsibility of standing in for their dad as Sam’s disciplinarian seriously, not just because their dad had asked him to, and not just because he recognized (they all did) that Sam and their dad were pretty much at an impasse (Dean wasn’t stupid – he’d seen that cold killing stare exchanged by Sam and their dad whenever they got into it, and a hunter took that a look like that seriously).  No, Dean disciplined Sam because he thought Sam needed it.  Needed that lesson.

Sam had hoped (not for very long), that Dean’s attitude towards discipline might change, after he and Dean had started this new thing.  Maybe Dean would go easier on him now, if Sam sat on his lap enough and gave him puppy eyes.

But that hadn’t happened.

Dean didn’t feel bad about punishing Sam at all.  If anything, he’d felt guilty over the years about being too _soft_ on Sam (and to be fair, Dean _did_ punish less harshly than their dad did…both him and Sam knew it…they just kept that knowledge from their dad).

 _Some_ things had changed, sure.  Dean had stopped whipping him.  But he’d done that because he felt bad about losing his temper, that last time, whipping Sam while he was still furious at him (because Sam had frozen Dean out and called him names and spit on him…) but still, you never gave out punishment if you weren’t in control of your emotions.  Dean couldn’t forgive himself for forgetting that, even if (to be honest) the circumstances of that day had been…special.  And he’d apologized to Sam sincerely (the only time he had _ever_ apologized to Sam, for punishing him).

And to be fair, Dean had taken Sam seriously when Sam said he was at his limit too.  That he wasn’t going to take the whippings or that whole humiliating ritual of standing in the corner, anymore.  Dean had listened to this. 

So that had stopped. 

But Dean’s attitude about discipline remained exactly the same.  If anything, he’d become stricter.

And that was the other downside to this thing with Dean.  And it was a big one.

Dean _still_ expected Sam to do what he said, but now more than ever.  He seemed to feel he had a personal right to Sam’s obedience now, not just the rights extended to him by their dad.  And he took any disobedience or defiance from Sam pretty hard.  And also, his expectations for Sam’s obedience had expanded considerably. 

Arguing.  Dean had always hated Sam’s tendency to argue (he was with their dad on that one).  After all, _he_ never argued with their dad.  Sam could count on one hand the times Dean had actually defied their dad on anything and those times had been…quite emotional (and always to do with Sam, of course).

But Dean had always given Sam a bit of leeway on the arguing thing, because he’d understood how unhappy Sam was with their general situation and after all, he could only be so harsh.  He couldn’t be punishing his little brother every time Sam opened his mouth.

But after him and Sam had started this other thing…that leeway disappeared.  In being with Dean like this, Sam was expected to accept their life and he’d also given up the right to speak his mind, apparently.  Dean soon made it clear that he had zero tolerance for `arguing.’    

Sam, getting dropped off at school, Dean driving the Impala.  The two of them, sitting in the car at the school entrance.  “I’ll be by at 3:30 to pick you up,” Dean said.  “I won’t be comin by at lunch, got somethin I gotta do with Dad today.  You’ll be okay, right?”

“You’re not goin to class?” Sam asked.  He wasn’t happy about this.

“Nope,” Dean said casually.  “No worries, Sammy, I c’n catch up on whatever’s goin on today easy.  You’ll help me.”

“You promised me you’d go to class,” Sam said, ignoring this.

Dean looked irritated.  “I promised you I’d go to class _as much as possible,”_ he said.  “That I wouldn’t skip if I couldn’t help it.  And today…I c’nt help it.  Okay?  So drop it, Sammy.  I’ll be by at 3:30 for you.  Don’t keep me waitin.”

Sam didn’t acknowledge this either.  “This is the second time you’ve missed class to help Dad with a hunt in _the last two weeks,”_ he said.  “And we’ve only just enrolled here.  Dad c’n manage without you.  He always has, before.  Why does he need you to miss school so bad all of a sudden?”

Dean was not happy listening to this, Sam saw.  “Dad said he needed me today…and _he’s_ teachin me too, Sammy, you know that,” he answered shortly.  “This morning could be critical ‘n’ identifyin somethin for the hunt, and Dad wants me to be there.  So I’m goin.  So stop arguin with me, okay?”

“I’m not _arguing,_ Dean,” Sam said.  “I’m pointing somethin out.  Dad’s been huntin all these years without your help.  And grade eleven is an important year if you’re goin to…if you’re goin to graduate.  He should respect that.  How’s that arguing?”

“You’re arguin,” Dean said.  “And if you keep it up, you’re goin over my knee as soon as we get home.”

Sam was upset now.  “You can’t expect me not to have an _opinion,_ ” he said, his voice rising.  “That’s not _fair.”_

Dean wasn’t happy with this either.  “You c’n have all the opinions you want,” he replied, his voice hard.  “I just don’t want to hear ’em.  Not unless I ask for them.  Got that?  Any opinion I receive from you that I don’t _specifically ask for,_ you’re goin over my knee.  And that’s a promise.”

Sam glared at him.  That was so unfair.  Dean was being a grade A jerk.  He got out of the Impala and slammed the car door, hard.

And got two spankings after school that day.  One for arguing, and one for slamming the door.  Dean made him count the spanks out loud, so they could both keep track.

Dean kept his word on this.  Very consistently.  If Sam argued with him, he’d get a spanking, either immediately, or as soon as possible.  Dean was determined that Sam learn this, for some reason.  And eventually, Sam did (painfully).

But having to watch every word he said…that was hard to get used to.  And Sam didn’t like it.   And also…he was _good_ at arguing (better than Dean).  He missed his ability to take his brother down a notch or two with his mouth.

And then there was the…lack of independence.  That was another thing.  Dean expected Sam to be accountable to him for every little detail of his life.  I mean, more than _ever…_ more than when Sam had been a little kid, even.  Dean was so… _invested_ in him now.  Invested in every little detail of Sam’s daily existence.  And he thought he had the right to a say in everything about Sam too…the _final_ say, apparently.  And that was hard to get used to as well.   And Sam didn’t like it much, either.

Sam had been used to a certain amount of restriction on his independence.  He was still the baby of their family, after all.  And Dean was _such_ a mother hen (their dad’s words)…he’d always been anxious about where Sam was, what he was doing, his safety in general (and both Sam and their dad found Dean’s anxiety pretty irritating, one of the rare things that _they_ were on the same page about). 

But it wasn’t like Sam had _no_ independence.  Dean had limited his impulse to control Sam’s every move, because he knew their dad didn’t like it (Dean wasn’t too concerned about _Sam’s_ opinion).  And Dean had also felt limited, to a certain extent, in terms of his rights over Sam’s activities, Sam could see that now.  Dean took his direction from their dad, and their dad hadn’t given Dean the authority to dictate Sam’s whole _life,_ after all.

Well, Dean didn’t feel limited any more.  Their dad had backed off. 

Dean had stated that _he’d_ be the one to finish raising Sam and their dad had given in.  Stepped back.  So Dean had a free hand, now, with Sam, because what was Sam going to say?  He certainly wasn’t going to _tell_ on Dean, to their dad, that Dean wouldn’t allow him to jack off for example, or wear clothes in their room without Dean’s say.  Or go anywhere, without asking Dean’s permission first (which was ridiculous…their dad had never been particularly concerned with his sons’ whereabouts, so long as they showed up when they were supposed to…and _Dean_ had had complete discretion to go where he wanted as long as Sam could remember).  Or look at people on the street.  Or speak to people even, that Dean hadn’t pre-approved.  Sam didn’t like any of that.  But I mean, what could he say, to their dad, that wouldn’t result in the whole story coming out?  And _that_ was simply inconceivable.  No way their dad could find out about what him and Dean were doing.

So, scratch independence.  Apparently Sam had given that up too, along with his right to free speech.  And if he forgot this new state of affairs, started taking them lightly...there were consequences.

Sam had been having a rough week.  He’d been late to meet Dean after school on Monday (after they got back to the motel, Dean bent Sam over the couch with his pants still on and gave him a few swats on the butt before they started their training).  And then he’d gotten mouthy with Dean on Tuesday (and _that_ earned him a bare butt spanking, over Dean’s knee).  And then, Wednesday night, Dean had gone out with their dad leaving Sam by himself, and Sam had given into temptation and jacked off (he and Dean had been necking, and then Dean was called away by their dad, with Sam still agonizingly turned on).  And then, after jacking off, he’d stupidly fallen asleep without washing up (and still in his shorts too), and _of course_ Dean had figured it out about two seconds after getting home.   He didn’t say anything though, just pulled Sam into his arms, kissed him tiredly, and fell asleep.

But the next morning.

Dean, sitting on a chair, Sam standing between his knees.  “So Sammy, anythin to tell me?”

“…No.”

“You sure?”  Dean’s eyes on him.  Sam felt himself flushing.

“Well…I might have…come…by myself, by accident.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.  “By accident.  Huh.”

“Thinkin about you, okay?” Sam said.  “And it was too much, and I just…came.  By accident.”

“Interestin,” Dean said thoughtfully.  “I didn’t think that was possible.  But okay.  So I guess in _that_ case there must be guys all over the place, lookin at pretty girls, goin, `Oops, I just jizzed all over myself, what a bitch.’”

Sam laughed a little.

Dean wasn’t smiling.  “That seem likely to you, Sammy?”

Sam stopped laughing.  “No.”

“No,” Dean agreed.  “So why don’t you tell me what really happened?  Before you make it worse for yourself.”

Sam swallowed.  He felt his ears burning -painfully aware of Dean’s level eyes, on him.  Hunter’s eyes.  “I jacked off,” Sam muttered.

Dean didn’t look surprised.  “You did, huh.”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s mild voice.  “And what did you promise me, the last time you did that?”

Sam was looking at his feet.  “That I’d never do it again.”

“So what do you have to say for yourself?”  Dean asked.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said sincerely.  He looked up at Dean appealingly.  Turned on the puppy eyes.  “I really won’t do it again, Dean, I promise.”

Puppy eyes weren’t working on Dean this morning.  “Uh huh,” he said, unimpressed.  “Like you promised me the last time.”

Sam sighed.  He was ready for this to be over.  And he was tired of standing between Dean’s knees like a child.  “Dean, I’m sorry, okay?” he said.  “So c’n you just spank me already?  I don’t want to be late for school.”

Dean, looking at him grimly.  “Oh I’m spankin you alright.  C’mere.”

And then the spanking, a fairly severe one, Sam in tears by the end of it. 

But getting dressed matter-of-factly afterwards, walking with Dean to school.  Enduring the hard wooden seat through his morning classes, meeting Dean for lunch behind the gym, like he usually did.

“How’s the butt?” Dean asked him by way of greeting.  Sam glanced around self consciously.  No one was nearby.  “Okay I guess.  Sore.”

Dean nodded.  “Uh huh.”  He was carrying something in a white plastic Rite Aid bag.  Handed the bag to Sam.  “Got you somethin.”

Sam took the bag, looked inside.  A largish wooden hairbrush with a flat oval handle.  His stomach started to flutter.  “What’s this?”

“Your new hairbrush.”

Sam swallowed.  “Why’d you buy this?” he asked.  “The one I’ve have is perfectly fine.  And this one looks expensive.”

Dean smiled.  “It is.  Nothin but the best for my Sammy.”

“…What do you mean?” Sam asked (but he already knew the answer).

“I mean…that you ‘n’ that new hairbrush are goin to get pretty well acquainted,” Dean said.  “Startin with this evening.” 

“But…you just spanked me this morning,” Sam replied helplessly.

“Yeah…” Dean drawled, “But that was just half of it.  We’re doin the other half tonight.”

“But… _why?”_ Sam asked.

“Because you’re gettin a little too casual about this whole deal,” Dean said.  “’N’ I don’t like it.  So we’re correctin it now.  Setting you straight.”

Sam was upset.  “But Dean-“

“Arguin,” Dean said thoughtfully.  “That’s worth a spankin on its own.  You askin for a double?”

Sam lowered his head.  “No.”

Dean nodded.  “I didn’t think so.  Now you keep that hairbrush with you today.  Keep it in your locker or your knapsack or whatever.  But don’t forget to bring it home.  You’re gettin spanked tonight one way or another, and if I have to buy a second brush, you’re gonna feel the cost of every dollar on your butt.”

Sam looked at him resentfully.  “Why c’nt you just take it with you then?” he asked.  “Why do _I_ have to hold onto it?”

Dean smiled at him.  “Your mouth just earned you another five strokes,” he said.  “I’m not takin it with me because it’s your responsibility now.  You’re gonna be keepin that hairbrush close until I say otherwise.  Keepin it handy.  Understand me?”

Sam looked down again.  “Yes Dean.”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah.  Well, I’ll see you later.  Don’t be late.”  He turned and walked away.

Sam stared after him, the drugstore bag dangling in his hand.  He felt the weight of the wooden brush inside.  It felt disturbingly heavy.

But Sam would get used to carrying the hairbrush around.  Dean insisted that he keep it with him, putting it in his knapsack on schooldays or storing it in the Impala’s dashboard if they were out in the car.  And in their room, the hairbrush was always placed on the nightstand, beside their bed.  If Sam forgot to unpack it, Dean would remind him. 

Sam became very familiar with the sight of that hairbrush, and its weight.  Keeping track of it became routine, from bedside table to knapsack, to car and back again.  

Because it always had to be handy.  In case Dean needed him to fetch it. 

To be fair, Dean didn’t ask him to fetch it that often.  He reserved it for repeat offences, mainly, and Sam was pretty diligent about not repeating things.  Because the thought of being spanked with the hairbrush was definitely a deterrent.

If he was in for a hairbrush spanking, Sam could barely think about anything else.  Sometimes he had to wait for Dean to have the opportunity to do it, and that would be the worst, those long minutes (sometimes _hours)_ slowly passing, the fluttery dread building in his stomach.

And then him and Dean, finally alone.  The two of them looking at each other.

Then Dean nodding.  Sitting down in a chair.  Asking Sam to fetch the hairbrush.  Sam would retrieve it and approach Dean slowly.  Hand the hairbrush to Dean.  And then (at another nod from Dean), he would take off his pants and shorts.  Drape himself over Dean’s knee.

Dean, clamping a hard hand around Sam’s waist, sometimes trapping Sam’s thighs between his legs.  Then a pause, Sam waiting tensely.  Dean would start rubbing Sam’s butt with his other hand, warming him up.

 And then Dean’s voice.  “So why’re we doin this, Sammy?”  Rubbing him.

And Sam explaining to him, his hot face suspended over the floor, Dean making him explain in excruciating detail just _why_ he was being spanked.  Making Sam explain and elaborate until he felt close to tears and the spanking not even begun yet.

And then finally, “You ready, Sammy?”

“…Yeah.”

“What was that?”

“Yes Dean.”

“So what do you say?”

Sam swallowing.  “Please spank me, Dean.”

“Alright then.”

And then Dean spanking him, the hairbrush falling on smartly on Sam’s ass with crisp, rapid, stinging blows, Sam wriggling under them and crying out almost immediately.

Sometimes Dean would make him count.  But often, he would just spank until Sam was in tears, the sobs hitching in his throat (Sam never tried to hold back his tears anymore –it just made the spankings last longer).

A pause.  Sam sobbing, sniffling, into the silence. 

Dean, asking him, “So am I gonna have to spank for this again?”

“No,” Sam’s tearful voice.

Dean, again.  “So what do you have to say to me now?” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam choked out.

Dean tapped the hairbrush warningly on Sam’s butt.  “And what?”

“And I’ll never do that again, I promise,” Sam said, wincing.

Dean, spanking him again (and he always concentrated the most spanks on a particular part of Sam’s butt, right where it met the seat of a chair).  “That’s what you said, the last time.  How do I know you mean it?”  Another set of spanks.

Sam cringing, _“Ow!_ I mean it, Dean!  I’m sorry!”

“Uh huh,” Dean would say.  And then, “A few more.  Make that promise count.”  And then spanking Sam _hard,_ the hairbrush smacking down sharply, Sam writhing now, sobbing helplessly.

Sometimes, if Dean was particularly annoyed with him, he’d stop Sam’s spanking halfway through.  Ask Sam to get up on the bed on his hands and knees and make him touch his forehead to the mattress, pushing his stinging ass high in the air.  Then he’d balance the hairbrush on Sammy’s back and leave him there for a few minutes (it felt like forever), with Sammy trembling, trying to keep himself as still as possible, the tears dropping onto the mattress beneath his face. 

And eventually, coming to stand by the bed, asking, “What do you have to say to me now, Sammy?”

“Please finish my spanking Dean,” Sam would answer, subdued.

And Dean would either finish the spanking with Sam holding himself in that position, or take Sam over his knee again. 

The spanking finally over, Sam gasping, his butt on fire.  “Good colour,” Dean would say.  “That’s one bright red ass, Sammy.  What do you have to say to me now?”

Sam whispering, “Thank you Dean.”

“For what?” Dean asked.

“For spanking me,” Sam said.

“And what else do you have to say?”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Sam said miserably.

“Well I sure hope so,” Dean would say.  “I’d hate to be _your_ ass right now.  You c’n get up.”

Sam rising, standing between Dean’s knees again, looking down at Dean with a flushed, tearstained face.

Dean looking back at him, handing Sam the hairbrush.  “You c’n put that back now,” he’d say, and Sam would place the hairbrush back carefully on the bedside table, or slip it into his knapsack if Dean and he were going to school.  Then he would turn, waiting for Dean’s next words.

“You c’n get dressed,” Dean said.  “And I’d better not catch you rubbin that butt, got it?  You think about what you did to earn that sore butt today.”

“Yes Dean.”  Sam walking haltingly over to his clothes, pulling them on gingerly.  Dean standing up now, his mind moving on to the next thing.  Maybe talking to Sam like things were normal again, Sam answering the best he could. 

And then Dean, pausing, looking at Sam’s face.  Opening his arms.  “C’mere, Sammy.” 

Sam, walking into Dean’s arms, the tears falling again.  Dean folding his arms around him, holding him, rocking him.  “There you are,” Dean murmuring.  “There’s my Sammy. SammySam.  My sweet baby boy.”

Sam’s arms around Dean waist.  His wet face against Dean’s throat.  Whispering, “Dean.”

Dean, holding him.  Murmuring, “I don’t want to have to spank you…you know that don’t you?”

“…Yeah.”

“I’d much rather be doin this.”  Dean kissing him now, his hands on the sides of Sam’s face, his mouth tender.  “Wouldn’t you rather be doin this?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’re _you_ gonna do about it Sammy?  If that’s what you want?”

“I’m gonna be good,” Sam answered quietly.  “Do whatever you say.”  Dean, kissing him, sweet kisses, drugging.  Dean’s hand stroking his cock, Sam hard now, trembling.

“That’s the best thing,” Dean agreed.  Kissing Sam again.  Murmuring to him, “You mind what I say ‘n’ everything will be good, everything will be fine Sammy, you’ll see.  Sammy."  And then the kisses deepening, Sam clinging to Dean now, rubbing helplessly against his brother’s cock.  _“I’ll always take care of you,”_ Dean whispering, Sam’s eyes closed now, a painful constriction in his chest. 

The sound of his brother’s fierce, proud voice, promising him that.

Sometimes, after a hairbrush spanking, Sam would look at his butt in the bathroom mirror (being careful not to rub it, though).

He’d examine it curiously.  Dean always left his butt a bright cherry red.  But (considering how much it hurt), it would be surprisingly unmarked.  No welts.  No bruising.  No strike marks of any kind.  Just that bright, even, cherry red. 

The welts and bruising Sam remembered, that had marked both him and Dean, those familiar marks left by the belt, a familiar part of their childhood, it seemed that those were a thing of the past.  Dean was spanking him carefully.  And Sam, seeing this, would feel a great affection for his brother rise inside him, even as his butt throbbed.  He’d look at himself in the mirror, tears in his eyes again.

Dean, taking care of him, even in this.

Sam _did_ try hard to avoid the hairbrush spankings (like he was _supposed_ to), but sometimes…things just happened that made one unavoidable, even if he could see it, looming on the horizon.

Sometimes, Sam would get mad.

I mean, c’mon, with Dean being the way he was, Sam could barely breathe, sometimes.  Having to ask Dean’s permission to go anywhere, having to be quiet when Dean told him to, having to stand between Dean’s knees and account for himself like a little kid every time Dean left him alone for a few hours, never being able to talk back to him…of _course_ he lost his temper, sometimes.

When Sam lost his temper, he got sarcastic (Dean called it bitchy) or he got cold.

And both styles of communication drove Dean up the wall (which was sort of the point).

Trouble was, neither of them was that effective anymore.  Dean just wasn’t accepting that kind of behaviour from Sam anymore.

At all.

Sarcasm fell within the realm of mouthing off (defiance).  Worthy of a spanking, and a serious one, if Sam didn’t heed Dean’s request to desist speaking like that, immediately.  But if Sam stopped (and he usually did once Dean mentioned the hairbrush), then a few swats from Dean’s hand on his butt was generally sufficient to set things right, or sometimes a quick over the knee spanking if he’d been particularly mouthy.  And those spankings often led to something else.  And Dean was so affectionate with him after spankings that after the whole thing was over Sam would often wonder why he’d been in a bad mood in the first place.

But if Dean asked him to shut up and Sam ignored him (usually because he was too mad to stop talking), then a hairbrush spanking would inevitably follow, either immediately, or as soon as Dean could manage it (with Sam then stuck thinking about it).

So Sam’s mouth (as Dean called it) had been more or less neutralized.  Dean took a fair amount of satisfaction from this, Sam knew (and that made Sam pretty mad too, but it’s not like he expressed that to _Dean)._

And then, being cold.  Freezing Dean out (Dean’s words).  Sam usually got like this after Dean said (or did) something that made Sam quite unhappy, and there was _absolutely nothing else_ he could do about it.  Couldn’t argue.  Couldn’t ignore.  Couldn’t defy.  Couldn’t do _anything_ but accept Dean’s words for what they were, and Sam not able to do that either.   

Coming up against a wall like that was incredibly frustrating and it was either get cold (ice cold) or explode.

Problem was, Dean had _no_ tolerance for coldness, from Sam.  Not anymore.  He gave no verbal warnings.  Gave Sam _no_ chance to snap out of his (bitch fit – Dean’s words) or apologize.  Nothing.  Dean had made it clear to Sam that any version of freezing him out, even at its most subtle, like using a cold tone of voice, or even a _look_ for god’s sake, was just about the _worst_ thing Sam could do, and, also, a thing of the past.  (Which was too bad, really, because up until now being cold had been the most effective weapon in Sam’s arsenal -Dean _hated_ getting frozen out, but hadn’t felt he had the right to punish Sam for it…after all, it’s not like Sam was being disobedient, or even rude…Sam was always icily polite).

But now. 

Dean felt entitled to spank him for being cold, alright.  And a hairbrush spanking too, immediately.  Dean apparently felt strongly enough about this that he skipped any warnings, any lecturing, any of the lesser spankings with his bare hand.  No, a freeze-out from Sam led directly to the main event.

“Sammy, get the hairbrush now.”

“But—“

 _“Now,_ Sam, ‘n’ don’t argue.”

“…But _why?”_

Dean’s hard voice.  “Don’t act all innocent.  You know why.  And any more arguin gets you five extra strokes.  Now get it.”

Sam turned silently and went to the hairbrush on the night table.  Picked it up and brought it over to Dean.

Now, draped over Dean’s knees, his pants around his ankles.  Dean, spanking him with the hairbrush, hard and fast, one cheek and then the other. 

Sam wincing, crying out. 

Dean spanking him relentlessly.  Sam wriggling now, kicking.  Dean, spanking him hard on the thighs. 

_“Ow!”_

“Stay still.”  Spanking Sam’s butt, again.

Sam, cringing under that horrible hairbrush, the tears starting to fall.  “Dean please, I didn’t _do_ anythin.” 

An especially hard spank.  Sam yelped. 

“Don’t pull that with me Sammy, I’m not stupid.”

Sam’s voice, tearful.  “Dean, I’m _sorry,_ okay?  Whatever it was, I’m sorry.  Please.”

“Uh huh.”  Dean spanking him.  No pause in the rapid, increasingly agonizing rhythm.  Sam sobbing now, breathlessly.

“Ow ow ow!  Dean _please!_   C’mon!”

Dean’s voice.  “Tell me what you were doin, Sammy.”

Sam sobbing.  “I dunno.”

Four hard, rapid spanks, two on each cheek.  _“OW!”_

“Tell me what you were doin Sammy,”

Sam sobbing.  “I was…ignoring you.”

Two more spanks.  Hard ones.

“OW!  _Dean!”_

“‘N’ why’s that bad?” Dean asked him.

“Because…you don’t like it,” Sam gasped.

Another two spanks. 

_“OW!”_

“That’s not the answer,” Dean said.  “Try harder.”

“I dunno what you want me to _say,”_ Sam sobbing.

“Tell me why don’t I like it.” Dean said to him.  More spanks.

“Ow…Dean please…”

“Tell me.”  More spanks.

“Because it’s…because it’s mean,” Sam said eventually, his voice broken.

Dean paused.  He rested the flat surface of the hairbrush on Sam’s stinging ass.  Sam whimpered.

“Mean,” Dean repeated.  There was an odd note in his voice, like he’d just been given something unexpected.  “That’s about right.  You were bein _mean_ to me Sammy.  Freezin me out.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.

“You know I can’t stand it,” Dean said.  “Why were you _doin it?”_

“Because I was mad,” Sam whispered.  “I was mad at you for tellin me I couldn’t leave the room.”

“And _why_ was I tellin you that?” Dean asked him.

“Because you’re goin out with Dad,” Sam answered, miserably.  “`N’ you don’t want me out wandering around while you’re workin.”

“Wanderin around in the _dark,”_ Dean elaborated.  “In a town that we just _got to,_ that has a _demon_ problem that Dad and me haven’t had a chance to _check out_ yet.  And you want to just go…out.”

“But Dean, I’ve been cooped up in the car _all day,_ c’mon,” Sam said.  “I'm goin crazy for some fresh air.  I just wanted to stretch my legs...what’s wrong with that?”

Dean spanked him hard, one cheek then the other.  _“OW!”_

“We covered that already ‘n’ I already said no.” Dean said.  “’N’ that’s not the issue, anymore.  The issue is, you freezin me out and acting like a little bitch, instead of just _acceptin_ my answer.  So what do you have to say now?” 

He started spanking Sam again, with a terrible, even rhythm. 

“I’m sorry…Dean… _ow!_...I’ll do…what you say.”  Sam whimpered.

“No more freezin me out,” Dean said briefly.   

Spanking him.

“No,” Sam agreed, fresh tears choking his voice.  His butt was writhing, helplessly.

“Bein _mean_ to me,” Dean elaborated. 

Spanking him.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered again.  Tears were running down his face.  His butt was on fire.

Dean paused.  Then said, “I’m givin you ten more to finish up,” Dean said.  “And I want you counting.  You ready?”

“Yeah…”

“Here we go then.”  A hard, stinging swat.

Sam gasped, choked out, _“One…”_

Finally the spanking over, Sam standing tearstained between Dean’s knees.  Miserably conscious of his throbbing ass, which felt swollen to twice its size. 

Dean, staring up at him, grimly.  “You freeze me out again, Sammy, you’re gettin this again.”

“I know,” Sam whispered.  “I’m real sorry, Dean.”  He blinked down at his brother, tearful.

Dean’s face softened.  “Kiss me,” he said.

Sam leaned forward and kissed him, Dean’s hands on him, gentle now, rubbing Sam’s back.  “Come sit down,” Dean said.

Sam sat gingerly down on Dean’s lap, wincing, his bare butt rubbing painfully against his brother's worn denim jeans.  Dean’s arms were around him.  “I worry about you Sammy,” Dean said.  “You know that don’t you?”

Sam, nuzzled against him, his face buried in Dean’s throat.  “Yeah,” he whispered.

“’N’ it’s dangerous for me, to be worried about you, if I’m on a hunt,” Dean said.  “Especially one like this.  You _know_ that, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said again.  “I wasn't thinkin, Dean.  I’m sorry.”

“`N’ then you givin me the cold shoulder…I find that really…upsetting,” Dean said.  His voice had tightened.

“I know,” Sam whispered.  Tears were in his eyes again.

“You don’t want to send me off on a hunt like that,” Dean said.

“No,” Sam agreed.  “I don’t.  It was mean.  It was selfish of me.  I’m sorry Dean, I really am.”  His face, buried against Dean’s throat. 

Dean’s arms around him.  “Sammy,” he murmured. “You _know_ I c’nt take that kind of thing, from you.  Don’t you?  I just…can’t.”

“I know,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s lips in Sam’s hair.  “You stay behind the salt lines tonight, okay?”

“I will,” Sam said.  He was leaning against Dean, tiredly.

“Get up now,” Dean said gently.  Sam climbed awkwardly off Dean’s lap.  Stood before him again.  “Turn around,” Dean said.  Sam turned around.  He waited, aware of Dean looking silently at his reddened butt.

Suddenly Dean’s lips were on him, kissing the sore flesh lightly.  “I love your little ass Sammy,” he said.  Whispered, “My Sammy’s little ass.”

Sam swallowed.  “All yours,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  “All mine.” He stood up.  “I gotta roll.”  Grabbed his jacket, turned back to Sam, kissed him briefly on the lips.  “I’ll be back by mornin,” he said.  “’N’ then we’ll have ourselves some fun.  If you’re not too sore that is.  Okay?”

Sam smiled at him faintly.  “Sure.”

Dean smiled back.  Put his hands on Sam’s shoulders, squeezing them.  “Rest up.  Keep yourself safe.”

“You too, Dean,” Sam said.  He blinked suddenly.  Looked at his beautiful big brother, standing in front of him, the green eyes bright, already anticipating the hunt, that adrenaline thrill, like nothing else. 

“Keep yourself safe,” Sam said.  “Come back to me.”

“I will baby boy,” Dean kissed him again and left.

Sam, painfully pulling up his shorts (but not bothering with his pants anymore, I mean, he was taking everything off before he went to sleep, anyway).  He refreshed the salt line at the threshold of the door.  Turned off the lights.  Then walked stiffly over to the bed, lying down on his side.

Started to cry again, quietly.

Waiting for Dean, behind a locked door and a salt line.  Punished, for being mad he couldn’t go out for a walk.

Night after night, like this.

And not able to say anything to anyone, about how he felt.  No one.  Not even to Dean, anymore, the person he was most close to in the world.  Because Dean didn’t want to hear those words, from him.  _Couldn’t_ hear them, from Sam. 

Not anymore.  Not the way Sam was, for him, now. 

All Dean’s, and fiercely cherished.

Sam was cold.  He yanked up the bed’s blankets, folded them over himself like a cocoon.  Felt the tears slipping silently down his face.

No freedom.

He had no freedom.

No freedom.  Not even the freedom of being angry and showing it.  He’d given that freedom away too, it seemed.

Sam was crying harder now, his stomach painfully clenched.  He felt his lips curl back from his teeth, a silent scream in his mouth.  

He’d given his freedom away.

Because somehow, it put Dean in danger.

It wasn’t fair.

Not fair.

But what was he supposed _to do_ about it?

Dean’s eyes, on him _(Sammy)._   Dean, smiling at him tenderly, Dean’s voice, murmuring, Dean’s arms, folded around Sam like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Sam thought about this.

Dean spanked him to teach him a lesson, Sam knew.  He’d always done this, as long as Sam could remember.  Lessons, spanked into Sam’s butt.  Discipline. 

Dean, raising his little brother right, because their dad had asked him to.  Bringing Sam up in the hunter’s way, training him, just like Dean was trained by their dad.  Harsh lessons, sometimes, but necessary.  For Sam.  For their family.

Sam thought about this.  Dean was still training him, he saw.  These new spankings, they were meant to teach a lesson too.  But what was that lesson, exactly?  It had nothing to do with being a hunter.

What was Dean trying to teach him that was so important?

Sam pulled his clothes off awkwardly under the covers (so he’d be ready for Dean, when he got home), and shoved them onto the floor.  He brushed his swollen ass very lightly (not rubbing it).  The sore flesh, under his fingers. 

A reminder.  Of what, though?

_(Pay attention to me)_

Sam opened his eyes in the dark room. 

That was it.  That was Dean’s message to him.  His request.

Ignoring Dean, shutting him out, disregarding him…that was the worst thing Sam could do.  The most hurtful thing.

_(mean)_

Worthy of spanking Sam raw.  But why?

_(Because you’re everything to me)_

Sam lay still on the bed, thinking about this.  His tears had dried up.

Dean needed Sam.  To be dedicated.  To be focused (on Dean).  To be in place.  To demonstrate his commitment to the hunter’s life.

_(You mind what I say)_

…Because he was with _Dean_ now, and that's what Dean was.

And for Sam to be happy with that.  To accept it.

_(Accept me)_

Because Dean was a hunter.  And Dean was with Sam.  And those two things…could _not_ be mutually exclusive.

Because Dean wouldn’t be able to bear that.  Because it would shatter him.  Split him in two.

_(I can’t stand it)_

Dean needed him, Sam saw, to be nothing but there.

There for him, completely, and he was training Sam, to be that way.

…And it wasn’t optional either, for Sam to be that way.

Dean needed that from Sam too much.  Was too invested, in Sam, for it to be otherwise. 

Because there was nothing, nothing that could ever take the place of Sam.

_(My Sammy)_

Sam stared out into the dark.  He understood the lesson now. 

That look in Dean’s eyes, that raw look.

_(my love)_

And he wasn’t upset anymore.  The grief he’d felt _(my freedom, gone)_ had…dissipated, like water sinking into sand.

Sam’s butt was throbbing painfully.  He’d be pretty uncomfortable for at least a couple of days (he knew this, from experience).

But that was okay.  He deserved it, for hurting Dean’s feelings.

Because Dean _(loved)_ needed him _,_ and Sam would be there for him.  He wouldn’t make his brother feel like things were any different.  Dean was counting on him for that.

And if he forgot, or got lazy, or failed Dean’s expectations in any way, he’d take his punishment. That painful spanking.  And he'd be glad of it.  Thank his brother, after.

Because he was _that_ important to Dean.

And that was a sacred trust.

Dean was counting on him.

Sam closed his eyes.  He wouldn’t let Dean down.  Because he loved Dean too.

Sam fell asleep, smiling.


	26. Chapter 26

Dean had never been happier in his life.

His life right now was…absolutely great.  Awesome.  He loved it.

Hunting with his dad, his skills sharpening, stretching to new levels.  The incomparable satisfaction of tracking down and putting an end to those secret abominations that walked the earth (intelligent, thinking creatures like humans but _not_ human…and hunting them so much more of a challenge…so much more dangerous…and so much, _much_ more satisfactory than hunting animals).

Hunting.  Like playing the coolest video game in the world, except in real life.  It was the best.  He loved it.  He felt sorry for all the soft losers out there who _weren’t_ hunters…who just _thought_ they were badass. 

No, hunting was the real deal.  And Dean felt more fortunate than he could say, that their dad had taken the trouble to pass on his rich knowledge to his sons, when he could have so easily left them behind, with Bobby or the state.  Gone his own way.  A legacy like no other, for Dean and Sammy (and now Sammy seemed to have finally gotten it too, the value of what their dad had given them, at long last, he’d stopped complaining, he was finally on board).

And that was another thing.  Sammy.

Sammy and him were getting along great.  No arguing.  No fighting.  Sammy not pulling his bitch face every five minutes and flaying Dean’s skin off with that cool, bitchy little sharp tongue of his.

No, Sammy’s tongue was being put to much better use now.  Curled into Dean’s mouth or around his cock.  Sliding up Dean’s ass (not that Dean had ever asked for that, but Sammy had just started doing it, and who was Dean to say no?).  Sammy had a talented tongue, alright, and it was finally being used right.  Along with the rest of Sammy’s silky, hot, luscious little self, that unspeakably delicious package of Sammy, unwrapped every night for Dean, wrapped _around_ Dean, moaning under him, pleading with him, sending Dean to the moon.  And of course Sammy’s delicious round little ass, bobbing under Dean’s hands and mouth.

It had taken some doing, getting there.  For awhile, seemed that Dean was going to have to spank Sammy on a daily basis (and there had been weeks where that actually happened).   And doing that hadn’t been easy.  On either of them.

Dean didn’t like making his brother cry.  He wasn’t some psycho.  He wanted Sammy to be _happy_ to be with him, after all.  But in order for that to happen, Sammy needed to _be there_ , focused on Dean as he finally claimed his hunter’s legacy, not off longing for something different, some deadly boring apple pie life that would never happen and Dean didn’t want, anyway.  And he needed to _listen_ to Dean, to accept his authority and dedicate himself to his training, so he could join Dean and their dad sooner rather than later and really experience the _reward_ of a hunt (that moment, that killing moment, when you killed the creature, when you finally tracked it down and looked into its eyes and killed it…like the best video game in the world).

That moment… _that_ was the reward that hunters craved, like a drug, although no one talked about it, not in so many words, not Bobby, not their dad, not the other hunters Dean had met over the years, but that _was_ the true reward, the reason for everything else.  That killing moment. 

Like nothing else.  Completely and utterly awesome.

Dean wanted Sammy to experience that moment.  Then he’d truly never look back.

But Sammy needed to be ready.  No way Dean (or their dad, to be fair), was letting Sammy into the field until he was ready.   So until then, the training, the safeguarding (because those monsters weren’t stupid and they were in a fight for their lives…they’d go after a hunter’s weak spot in a second, and family…the people you loved…that was the weak spot, no doubt).  So until Sammy was ready, it was critically important that he not expose himself.   And that he _always_ do what Dean asked of him, without question or hesitation (because sometimes on a hunt, things happened fast).

And Dean found that suddenly he just…didn’t have the tolerance for anything different.  Not from his brother.  Not anymore.   No more tolerance for ‘questioning.’  No more tolerance for bitching.  No more tolerance for complaining and wishing things were different.  No more tolerance for Sammy holding himself back, giving Dean that cold, distant stare, making Dean feel like life wasn’t worth living.  Nope.  Those ways that Sammy had, the way he thought he could be, with Dean, with their dad, that hurtful, snotty attitude he could take towards their lives, that was over.  Now that Sammy and Dean were together, _really_ together _,_ well, Sammy just had to goddamn grow up, that’s all.  Accept he was with _Dean_ now and what Dean expected of him was the way things had to be, for both their sakes. 

For their mutual safety.  And sanity.

And if Sammy had to sit on a sore ass, day after day, to learn that lesson, well…so be it.  Dean was prepared to do what he had to do, to get the message about this new state of affairs into Sammy’s stubborn head, and sometimes (no, _most_ of the time), a spanking was the most effective means of accomplishing this, much more effective than _talking_ (and also, Dean wasn’t going to let himself get dragged into any more arguments with his brother…he’d learned long ago he’d never win, going _that_ route). 

So, for awhile it was a frequent occurrence, Sammy draped over Dean’s knees (or table or couch, or bed, or the trunk of the Impala if they happened to be on the road and the spanking couldn’t wait).   Cringing, sometimes tearful under swats from Dean’s hand (or sobbing breathlessly under the smacks of the hairbrush…a painful necessity, once Dean had figured out that Sammy was getting a bit too relaxed at the prospect of punishment, now that he’d retired the belt). 

Dean didn’t like to be severe with Sammy.  But he wasn’t going to be lax with him, either, the lesson was too important.  And Sammy deserved consistency from him –the faster things sank in, the better.  And he did his best to make it up to Sammy afterwards, pulling him into his lap after spankings, kissing him, cuddling him, and moving on to…other things, that fire between them blazing up, uncontrollable as always.   That exquisite reminder, for both of them, of _why_ they were together in the first place. 

Sammy, cuddled in Dean’s lap, tears running down his face.  Sitting gingerly on Dean’s knees, his butt red and raw from a hairbrush spanking, the first he’d earned in quite some time (a month, at least, Sammy had been good recently).  Dean’s arms around him, his lips in Sammy’s hair.

Sammy crying, helplessly.  Dean holding him, rocking him. 

Eventually saying, “You wanna lie down on the bed?”

Sammy, nodding against Dean’s chest.  Dean rising carefully, setting Sammy on his feet, walking Sammy over to the bed, his arms still around him.  Laying his brother down on the bed, coming to lie down beside him, his arms around Sammy again.

Sammy moving himself forward, pressing the length of his body into Dean, his wet face buried against Dean’s chest.  Dean stroking his back.  “There’s my baby boy.”  Murmuring.  “You my baby, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sammy whispering.

Dean, murmuring into his hair.  “You gonna be good now?” 

Sammy’s head nodding.  “Yeah.”

Dean put a finger under Sammy’s chin, tilted his face up.  Looked into the tearful hazel eyes.  “You know I only spank you when you need it, right?”

Sammy looked down. 

Dean tilted his chin up again.  “Answer me.”

Sammy, blinking up at him.  “Yes Dean.”

Dean smiled.  He bent his head, sought Sammy’s mouth.  Kissed him gently, feeling the smooth lips open under his mouth.

Then Sammy’s tongue, sliding into his mouth, stroking him.  Dean kissing him, harder now, his breath speeding up, his hand finding Sammy’s cock.  Sammy’s cock, hard in his hand, Dean rubbing him, stroking him, running his thumb over the tip of Sammy’s satiny cock, Sammy’s breath hissing through his parted lips, Dean pulling on him, Sammy starting to tremble.  And then Dean releasing Sammy’s cock abruptly, Sammy moaning in protest until he felt Dean’s lips on his nipples, kissing them, sucking on them, Sammy’s hands in Dean’s hair.

“Dean please-“

“I’ll get there Sammy, be patient.”  Then Dean kissing him, sucking on his nipples, kissing his brother’s smooth belly, then his mouth around Sammy’s cock, Sammy gasping.  Dean sucking on him, sucking Sammy’s cock back hard into his mouth, the familiar silky length of Sammy’s cock, shuddering, pulsing under Dean’s tongue, Sammy on fire now, moaning, Sammy’s hot sweet come, spurting into his mouth, Sammy moaning raggedly.  _“Dean-“_

And then Dean roughly undoing his own jeans, ripping them off, yanking off his shorts.  “Hold me.”   Sammy’s hand curling around Dean’s cock, pulling on him expertly, jacking Dean off, Dean thrusting into his brother’s warm palm, then gasping, “Sammy, your mouth-“  Sammy bending down to put his mouth over Dean’s cock, that hot intelligent little mouth, that tongue, Dean dying now, dying under the sweet glide of Sammy’s mouth, that relentless mouth working his cock, Dean hearing his own voice, moaning now, helplessly, moaning under Sammy’s mouth, coming into his brother’s mouth. 

And then the two of them, breath slowing, lying boneless against each other on the bed.

Sammy, clasped in Dean’s arms again. 

Dean nuzzling against Sammy’s face, his nose against Sammy’s skin, his tongue touching Sammy’s cheeks lightly, the salty remains of tears.  “Baby.”  His hands, gently stroking Sammy’s back. 

Sammy’s arms around his waist.  Lying against Dean, quiet, Dean feeling the soft rise and fall of Sammy’s breath.  His brother’s silky hair, tickling his throat.  Sammy.

“What you thinkin?” Dean murmured to him.

Sammy, quiet.  Dean, stroking him.

Then, “You spanked me real hard Dean.  Just now.”

Dean continued running his hands over Sammy’s back.  The sweet feeling of Sammy.  Then he sighed. 

“Is that complainin?” he asked.

“No,” Sammy replied quietly.  “Not complainin, just…observing.”

Dean, stroking him.  “I guess I did, Sammy, you’re right.  But you were warned.  Weren’t you?  That if I had to tell you twice, the spankin would be hard.  I said that to you didn't I?”

“…Yeah...” Sammy replied.

Dean stroked him.  Kissed his hair.  “You just remember that," he said.  "Goin forward.  Next time you have the urge to use that mouth of yours for the wrong thing, you just remember this spankin, remember how much your ass hurts right now.  And you’ll make the right decision.  Okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Okay then.”  Dean smoothed a hand over Sammy’s hair.  He felt Sammy’s body, leaning against him.  That warm weight of Sammy, infinitely precious.  His hand stilled, fingers still threaded though Sammy’s hair.  They were both quiet.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes were closed.  He’d been dozing lightly, called back by Sammy’s voice.  “Yeah?” 

“How long’re you goin to keep spankin me for?”

Dean opened his eyes.  “As long as you need it.  Why?”

“’Cause…I’m fourteen already (Sammy had turned fourteen last month, and he and Dean had celebrated…boy had they ever).  “Aren’t I a little old for it now?”

“Nope,” Dean said.

“…And _you_ don’t get beat anymore,” Sammy said.  “Dad leaves you alone.”

“Well, for one thing,” Dean said, “I was gettin beat until I was _sixteen._ And I’m not anymore because I’m Dad’s huntin partner now, riskin my life right alongside him.  _And_ I’m doin my share of the earnin.  Supportin you ‘n’ me, like a man.  And a man doesn’t get his ass whupped by his dad.”

Dean saw Sammy considering this.  Then he said, “So…when I’m sixteen, will you stop spanking me?” 

Dean smiled slightly.  “Probably not.”

“Why not?”  Sammy asked.

Dean sighed.  “Because your situation is…different.”

“How?”

Sammy wasn’t letting go of this, Dean saw.  He sighed again.  “Because…you’re…because you’re with _me,_ that’s why.  I’m still gonna be responsible for you.  And that means you listen to me or get spanked.”

Sammy’s voice.  “But what if I’m goin out on hunts with you ‘n’ Dad by then?  Like you want me to, right?  I’ll be riskin my life, just like you.  Don’t you think I should have the same deal Dad gave you?”

Dean didn’t like this.  “Dad didn’t _give_ me anythin, Sammy.   I just told him it was time,” he said shortly.

Sammy’s voice.  “…So maybe when _I_ tell you it’s time…when I’m huntin with you and earnin cash and all that…that’s when you’ll stop?”

“…You’re never gonna tell me it’s time,” Dean said.

“What do you mean?”  Sammy asked.

“I _mean_ …that if you’re with me…like you are…you’re gonna do what I say,” Dean said.  “That’s _our_ deal, Sammy.  And that means that…sometimes…I’ll be spankin you.   When I think it’s necessary, that is.  For our mutual wellbein.”

“You mean…I’m gonna have to do what you say… _forever?”_ Sammy sounded incredulous.

“…Yup,” Dean said.

 _“And_ get spanked,” Sammy added.

“Yup.”

“Whenever _you_ feel like it.”

Sammy was sounding hard done by.  Dean took a breath.  “Not whenever I _feel_ like it,” he said patiently.  “Whenever I think it’s _necessary._   When you’ve done somethin to _earn_ it…and also…for maintenance, sometimes.   A spankin to remind you to be good.”

“Maintenance,” Sammy repeated dubiously. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “You _need_ a reminder spankin, Sammy, every so often, and don’t tell me you don’t.  Keeps you on track.  But you’re not gonna need a _punishment_ spankin if you’re smart ‘n’ do what you’re told.  See how that works?”

Sammy didn’t acknowledge this.  “So…” he said, “…even after I’m…grown up…you’re _still_ gonna spank me…no matter _what_ I do.  That’s not gonna end.”

What was Sammy not getting here?   Dean tapped his butt warningly.  Sammy winced.  “Are you arguin already?”  Dean asked him.

“No Dean please…” Sammy said.  “I’m just trying to understand.”

Dean sighed.  “Okay.  But if I decide this conversation is over it’s over, got it?  Unless you’re lookin for  _another_ spankin.”

“…Okay,” Sammy said.

“Okay,” Dean repeated. 

Sammy was quiet.  Then said, “I just wanted to get a clear picture.  Of what we’re really talkin about here.”

Dean sighed again.  Sammy wanted a _picture?_  Fine.  He'd get one.

“I’m gonna be spankin you Sammy,” he said evenly.  “Whenever you need it and as hard as you need it.  And if I think you need a spankin every day, you’re gonna get one _every day._   For as long as I think it’s necessary.  Get the picture now?”

Sammy was silent.

Then said, thoughtfully, “Huh.” 

Huh.

Dean looked at him.   

Well, at least Sammy wasn’t arguing.

“We clear?” Dean asked him.  Sammy nodded silently.  Dean felt relieved.  He was ready to move on from this.  I mean, what he’d just said, it sounded pretty harsh when you put it into words, but, well…there it was.  And the sooner Sammy accepted it, the easier it would go for him.

Then Sammy spoke. 

“That doesn’t sound like such a great deal for _me,_ ” he said (sarcastically).  “Dean.  What kind of terms are _those?”_

Sarcasm.  Terms.  Was Sammy aiming to _negotiate,_ here?  Dean was irritated now.  “It’s the _only_ deal for you, Sammy,” he said briefly.  “And you’re forgettin the upside.  You have _me,_ remember?  Lookin out for you.  Thinkin about you all the time, like I do.  Keepin you safe.  Doin everythin for you…like I _do._   Havin your back, when you’re ready for the hunt.  Just like you’ll have mine.  You’re gonna be my partner.” 

Dean took a breath.  Then he deliberately stroked Sammy’s hair.  He wasn’t going to let Sammy get him going again (I mean…was his stubborn little brother _asking_ for another spanking?) 

And anyway…Sammy and him being partners…it _would_ be great.  Sammy had to see that (and forget about _terms_ …Jesus).  “You’ll see what I mean, Sammy,” Dean said in a milder voice.  He kissed his brother’s hair.  “It’ll all work out, I promise.”

Sammy was quiet.  Dean put his nose into Sammy’s hair (he loved putting his nose into Sammy’s hair).   He closed his eyes.  Felt himself relaxing again.  Sammy would get it, what Dean had just said.  And accept it, if he hadn’t already.  After all, Sammy had been pretty good recently, with the exception of today. 

Then Sammy said, “…You know, Dean…you told Dad he couldn’t punish _you_ anymore because you were _his_ partner now ‘n’ not just his son.”

Dean sighed.  “So?”

“So…if I become _your_ partner, doesn’t that mean you don’t get to do that to me anymore?”  Sammy looked at him.

Dean looked back.  “That’s different,” he said.

“I don’t see _how,”_ Sammy replied.

“Watch your tone with me,” Dean said.   He meant it too.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy said, more carefully.  “I’m not arguing Dean, I’m just tryin to understand.   Okay?”

Dean sighed again.  “Okay,” he said.  “Fine.  So…Dad’s stopped punishin me because he’s finished raising me.  He’s not responsible for me anymore.  That’s my job now.  To look after myself.”

“And…so…what does that have to do with me?”  Sammy’s voice was cautious.  Not argumentative at all.

Dean grinned at this, even though he wasn’t enjoying the conversation.

“Nothin,” he continued, “Except I’m not Dad.  Okay?  You ‘n’ me, our situation is different.”

“But you’re my big brother, right?” Sammy said.  “Raising me?  So when _that’s_ over and I’m finally grown up ‘n’ ready to be your huntin partner…how’s that different?  We’re gonna be equals then…just like you ‘n’ _Dad_ are _,_ apparently.  You won’t be tellin me what to do all the time or…spanking me.  Not if I’m grown up.”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “I’m more than your big brother, Sammy.  Don’t you see that?”

“Not really,” Sammy said.

Dean didn’t like that.  But he wasn’t going to let himself get upset.  Sammy wouldn’t have said that if he’d really thought about it.  Would he?  

Dean continued slowly.  “’N…you’re more than my little brother,” he said.  “You have been, since we started this thing.  You must know that Sammy, you’re not stupid.  And you’re gonna be more than just my huntin partner when you’re grown up.”

“What am I gonna be then?” Sammy asked him.

Dean hesitated.  This was difficult to say.  “You’re gonna be my…everythin partner, Sammy.  Not just huntin.  Huntin and…everythin else.”

“Everythin else,” Sammy repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Like your…life partner,” Sammy said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, relieved.  That was a good way of putting it.  “Like that.  We’re goin to be spendin our _lives_ together Sammy, not just huntin together.  We’ll be livin together and…everythin else.  That’s not gonna end, just because you’re grown up.” 

Sammy’s voice.  “And you’re gonna keep on feelin responsible for me, even if I’m grown up.”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah, Sammy I can’t…be with you and not feel responsible for you.  That’s not the way I’m made.”

“Responsible for lookin out for me,” Sammy said.

“Yeah.”

“And for tellin me what to do, of course” Sammy said.  Dean heard that tone in his voice again.  Sarcasm.

He tilted Sammy’s chin up.  “You bein mouthy?”

Sammy blinked.  “No...”

Dean looked at him.  Sammy swallowed.  Said, “I…I meant that…what you’re sayin is…that being _responsible_ for someone means you’re responsible for…guidin them.  Right?  Givin them direction?”

Dean smiled.  Sammy had figured it out, like usual.  “Yeah, that’s what it means Sammy.  I’m responsible for givin you direction.  Keepin you straight.”

Sam tucked his head under Dean’s chin.  Dean’s eyes closed with pleasure.  He loved the silky feel of Sammy’s head, tucked under his chin.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “And spanking me.  You’re responsible for that too.”

Dean sighed.  Back to this again.  “Well…yeah.  When you need it.  A spankin is a good reminder.”

“To do what you say,” Sammy said.

“Right.”

“Because that’s what _I’m_ supposed to do,” Sammy elaborated.  “’Cause I’m your…partner.”

His brother was getting the picture alright.  “Yup,” Dean said briefly. 

Sammy was quiet.  Dean rubbed his chin against his brother’s head.  Maybe Sammy was done talking now.  They could get on to other things.

Then Sammy said, hesitantly.  “Dean, I…I don’t think you should spank me anymore.  Okay?  I c’n be your partner…without that.”

Dean was quiet.   

He thought about Sammy, getting up the nerve to ask him this (and it _took_ nerve, Dean understood that too).

Dean wasn’t going to get mad at Sammy for asking, since he’d done it respectfully.  

He thought about it. 

Not spanking Sammy. 

It had been a given, for years, between Dean and Sammy (and their dad), that when Sammy required discipline, Dean would give it out.  And Sammy just knew, if he pushed Dean past a certain point, that he was in for it. 

For years, it had been this way.  And now Sammy was asking him to stop?

Okay.  So say Dean stopped…what would _that_ look like?

Dean thought about Sammy’s smart mouth (and that sharp tongue), no longer restrained by the possibility of a sore ass.  Sammy, thinking he could argue with Dean whenever he felt like it (and he did that plenty _still)_.  Negotiating (looking for _terms)_.  Questioning Dean’s authority (and possibly putting himself and Dean in danger as a result, to say nothing of what their _dad_ would say).  Sammy, thinking he could go his own way (which wasn’t necessarily _Dean’s_ way…or their dad’s) without consequences.   

Dean gazed at his brother’s face.  He saw Sammy looking back at him cautiously (but also hopefully).

Dean didn’t really want to see that.  He looked away from the puppy eyes.  Focused on his brother’s mouth instead.

That mouth.  Let’s not forget, Sammy could talk circles around him.  Dean saw himself trying to deal with that mouth on its own ground, reduced to using _logic_ to get his point across…of having to… _debate_ with Sammy, instead of just saying, “Enough talkin,” and raising his hand (and Sammy obediently shutting up and doing what he was told). 

Dean’s satisfying ability to do that. 

Sammy’s obedience to him, expected and enforced. 

Giving that up.

Nah.

It wasn’t going to work. 

Dean sighed.  “No Sammy.  Spankins are good for you.  I know you don’t like ’em…you’re not _supposed to_ …and I don’t particularly like givin them out…there’s other things I’d rather be doin with you…but they keep you on the right track.  Keep that mouth of yours in line.  And _that_ keeps things good, between us.  `N’ you _want_ things to be good between us…don’t you?” 

Sammy looked disappointed.  Dean didn’t like seeing that look (it hurt him, actually), but he steeled himself.  He knew what was best.  For both of them.  And it was his responsibility to do what was best, for both of them, like it always had been.  Even if it wasn’t easy.   But Sammy would accept it, like he always did, eventually.  He had to.

“Answer me,” Dean said firmly.

Sammy looked down.  “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  “So you see…spankin you is my _responsibility._ To keep things good.”

Sammy was quiet.

Dean started stroking Sammy’s back again.  That silky skin, that feeling of Sammy under his palm, like nothing else in this world.  Maybe Sammy would just shut up already and let Dean stroke him.

But Sammy wasn’t finished, apparently.  He said, “So _you_ think that…us bein _partners_ …means me doin what _you_ say, forever and ever.” 

“Yes,” Dean answered briefly.

“So exactly how is that a _partnership?”_ Sammy asked him.  “It sounds more like a _dictatorship.”_

Dean was feeling harassed now.  Somehow, whenever he was speaking with Sammy about difficult stuff, he lost control of the conversation.  He didn’t know how it happened, exactly.  But it did.  Every time.

“Put it that way if you want,” he replied, shortly.  “But if you ‘n’ I are gonna be together…like we _are_ …like you _wanted,_ Sammy…then that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

“Or I get spanked,” Sammy muttered.

Dean had had enough.  “I’ve been about as clear as I can be,” he said, his voice hardening.  “And I don’t want to hear any more about it.  You know the deal.   You disrespect it…you’re gonna have one damn sore ass.  Just like you do right now.  No two ways about it.  And it’s not gonna be any other way.”

“Because that’s the way you’re made,” Sammy said.

“That’s right,” Dean said.  “That’s the way I’m made.  You’re just gonna have to accept that, Sammy.”

Sammy was quiet.  Dean felt the light whisper of his breath against his throat. 

Sammy.  Dean closed his eyes again.  Maybe Sammy was done putting him through the ringer, finally.  Dean nuzzled him.  Couldn’t they just lie here now?  He loved lying down with Sammy, their arms around each other.  He could lie here like this for the rest of his life and die happy.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “I’m never really gonna grow up then.  Not for _you._   You’re _never_ gonna treat me like a man.”

Dean groaned.  “Jesus, Sammy, c’n we just let this _go?”_

“Please Dean,” Sammy said.  “I’m just trying to understand how this works.”  (He sounded so reasonable).  “Just let me understand and I’ll shut up, I promise.”

Dean sighed.  “Fine.  What were you sayin?”

“I was sayin…it doesn’t sound like you’re ever gonna treat me like a man.  I mean, not the way _you_ get treated.  The way Dad treats you, now.”

Dean thought about this.  He hadn’t really considered this angle before _(Sammy, a man?)_   But it sounded about right, actually.  Sammy, Dean’s baby boy, like always.  How could things ever be different? 

“No,” Dean agreed.  “I guess not.”

“I gotta grow up some time, Dean,” Sammy said.  “I’m not always goin to be a kid.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Dean replied.  “You’re goin to be a man, Sammy and a fine one, if Dad ‘n’ me have anythin to say about it.  A fine hunter.  No one’s goin to give you any shit.”

“Except you,” Sammy said.  His voice was dry.

“Well, yeah,” Dean said.  He smiled at this.  “Except me.”

Sammy raised his head, looked up at Dean’s face.  Dean’s eyes fell on his mouth.  That exquisite mouth that turned Dean inside out.  Dean bent his head forward, seeking that mouth.  Heard Sammy say, against his lips, “So you’re… _never_ goin to treat me like a man, even if everyone else does.”

“Guess not,” Dean was kissing Sammy now, on the face, on the lips.  Sammy had figured it out, like he always did.  Given Dean the words, put them right into his mouth.  But that was okay.  Dean was more than ready to move on from _this_ conversation.  He wanted to spend some time kissing Sammy on the bed.  And then they could get dinner. 

“You’re always goin to be my baby SammySam,” he murmured.  He kissed Sammy again, the smooth lips.

Sammy didn’t answer.  He let Dean kiss him, his mouth opening.  Dean took advantage of this, moved in, his hands on both sides of Sammy’s face.  Sammy’s warm mouth, his smooth teeth, his tongue. 

Sammy.  Dean could kiss him forever.

Then Sammy spoke again.  “You mean your wife,” he said.

Dean froze, shocked.  “…What?”

“Your wife,” Sammy repeated, matter-of-factly.  _“_ I’m goin to be your wife.  Not your baby.  _That’s_ what you mean.  _That’s_ what I’m goin to be.  _That’s_ what we’re really talkin about here.” 

Dean was frozen, speechless.  His _what?_

Sammy snorted.  _“Life_ partners.  Jesus, Dean, what do you think that means?”

Dean finally found his voice.  “Um, well-“

“-Husband and wife, that’s what,” Sammy continued, ignoring him.  “And I’m gonna be the wife, I guess, from the way you’re talkin.  Unless you’re plannin for me to be the husband.”

Dean didn’t like that.  “What –no!”

Sammy laughed softly.  “I didn’t think so.”  He was quiet again.

Dean lay there. 

Conscious of Sammy, beside him, so close to him.  Sammy’s lips against his skin.  Dean couldn’t move.  Sammy, lying against him, quietly.  Waiting for Dean to say something. 

Well… _Dean_ was speechless here.  What could he possibly say?  _What_ had Sammy just said?  Dean held his brother absently, resting his cheek against Sammy’s forehead. 

Wife.  Sammy had said that word like a spell, a word changing the order of things, just by being spoken aloud.  The sound of that word, spoken into the silence.

What Sammy had said.

Dean thought about this, what Sammy had just said.  It had sounded…okay, actually.  It should have sounded _wrong_ (I mean, c’mon, wives were…well _, female_ , right?  Chicks.  _Women_ ). 

But it didn’t sound wrong.  Not at all.

But…Jesus, what was he supposed to say _now?_   Sammy, blindsiding him like that.

Dean sighed, inwardly.  Sammy’s mouth.  Fuck.  It always got to him.  One way or another.  Even now. 

Then Sammy, speaking _again._   “So _that’s_ what you want.  I get it.  _That’s_ why you’re expectin me to do whatever you say…for the rest of my life.  You’re like some…traditional husband.  Right out of the 1950s.  Just like the last fifty years never happened.”

Dean was totally confused now.  “… _What?”_

Sammy sighed.  “Dean, c’mon, don’t you read _anythin?_   It’s like you’ve been in a cave all your life.  Where’s your cultural context?”

Cultural context.  Jesus, this kid.  Dean had _no idea_ how he’d ended up raising a nerd. 

“Don’t be a snot,” he replied shortly.  “Your butt might be too raw for another hairbrush spankin tonight, but we c’n always schedule one in for later in the week.”

“…Sorry,” Sammy said.  His voice was subdued.

“Uh huh,” Dean answered.  He was ready to get up now.  No more kissing.  Sammy had effectively broken the mood. 

“We’re done with this stuff for the time bein,” Dean said to him firmly.  “You want some dinner?”  He started to untangle himself from his brother’s arms and legs.

Which tightened around Dean immediately, Sammy clinging to him like a monkey.  “Just one more question, Dean,” Sammy said.  “Please?”  He raised his head and looked into Dean’s face again.  Blinked up at him.  The eyes.

Dean wasn’t falling for that.  “No,” he said firmly.  “`N’ if you’re smart, you’re gonna respect that I said this conversation is _over.”_

Sammy looked down.  “Fine,” he muttered.  He relaxed his grip, allowing Dean to get up.

Dean rose from the bed, found his clothes where they’d fallen to the floor.  Pulled them on.  Turned back to Sammy as he was buckling his belt.  “I’m goin down to that pizza place, get you ‘n’ me a slice,” he said.  “You wait here.  Get dressed, if you want.”

Sammy looked up at him from the bed.  He was quiet, gazing at Dean thoughtfully.  Then he said,

“I’m not your wife yet.” 

Dean was frozen again.  “What?”

“I’m not your wife yet,” Sammy repeated calmly.  He held Dean’s eyes.  “You’re… _raising_ me, to be that, I’m pretty clear on that now.  But I’m not your wife yet.”

Dean looked at him. 

Sammy, gazing back at him with those big eyes.

Then he smiled.  

Dean stared at him, wordless.

Then suddenly he was on Sammy, grabbing him, trapping him against the bed, Sammy gasping as his sore butt hit the mattress.  “Dean, what-“

Dean was kissing him, kissing Sammy’s mouth, licking his mouth, licking his throat, licking his nipples, lower, licking his cock, closing his mouth hard over Sammy’s cock.  Sam was moaning now, protesting, twisting under Dean’s mouth.  Dean grabbed his hips to hold him still.  He started moving his mouth rapidly up and down Sammy’s cock.  Sammy was shuddering, “ _Dean, please…god…”_

Dean raised his head, met Sammy’s wide eyes.  

“Sounds like you’re daring me.” Dean said to him.  He was speaking through his teeth.  “Is that what you’re doin?”  And then his mouth on Sammy’s cock again, working him, hard.  _“Oh,”_ Sammy gasped.  He was trembling, his hands in Dean’s hair.  _“Dean please...”_

Dean ignored this, kept working him until Sammy was moaning, bucking against him.  Dean felt his brother’s cock expand in his mouth, felt the shivering that told him his brother was close to coming and tightened his mouth around Sammy’s cock, mercilessly.  Sammy cried out.  And then he was coming, releasing helplessly into Dean’s mouth, the taste of Sammy, incomparable.

Dean raised his head, looked at Sammy again.

Sammy lay limply under him, gasping.  His expression was broken open, those wide eyes raw.  His mouth was trembling.

Dean reached up and ran a thumb over Sammy’s parted lips.  “Daring me…” he repeated thoughtfully.  “Why you doin that?”

“I wasn’t-“

Dean stuck his thumb into Sammy’s mouth, covering the lower half of Sammy’s face with his hand.  Sammy’s eyes widened. 

“Don’t give me that,” Dean said.  “You were darin me and don’t say you weren’t.”  He looked at his brother.  “You think I’m not gonna take you up on it?”

Sammy lay still, staring up at him.  Dean’s thumb, pushed deep into his mouth.  Sammy was silent.

Dean considered him.  Then said, “Turn over.”

Sammy stared at him, silent, his eyes glimmering now.  He shook his head, slightly.

Dean pushed his thumb firmly against the roof of Sammy’s mouth.  “Turn over,” he said.  “Don’t make me ask you a third time.”  He pulled his thumb out of Sammy’s mouth.  “-`N’ don’t _say_ anythin,” he warned, quickly.  “You’ve said enough for one night.”

Sammy swallowed, staring at him.  Then he slowly turned himself over, laying face down on the bed.  

Dean considered him, Sammy’s silky body with that luscious round little butt, now a bright red.  “Up on your hands ‘n’ knees,” he said.  “Get that little sore ass of yours in the air.”

Sammy’s chest was heaving.  He slowly raised himself on hands and knees.   Dean placed a hand flat on one of those red round cheeks.  Sammy winced, whimpering softly.

“Put your head down,” Dean said, leaving his hand in place.  Sammy lowered his forehead to the bed, pushing his ass high up, the cheeks splitting apart like a round ripe fruit.  Dean gazed at the dark silky crease of Sammy’s ass, his little asshole, now exposed.  He ran his thumb, still wet with Sammy’s saliva, down along that crease.  Felt his brother tremble.

“You were darin me.”  Dean said again.  Stroked his thumb up and down.  “Weren’t you?”

Sammy was trembling.  He didn’t say anything.

Dean stroked him.  “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Sammy whispered.

Dean nodded.  “Daring me to do it…” he said thoughtfully.  “You _want_  me makin you a wife.  Don’t you Sammy?"

Sammy didn't say anything.

Dean laughed shortly.  "Takin you to wife...isn't that how they say it?  Makin you my little child bride?”

Sammy’s head, buried in the mattress.  The red cheeks of his ass, trembling.  He was silent.

“My good little wife,” Dean whispered to him.  His thumb was circling Sammy’s asshole now, rubbing.  “My wife,” he repeated (that word, it was sounding better and better).  He pressed the tip of his thumb against the hot flesh.  Sammy whimpered. 

“Obedient,” Dean said.  He paused.  Then pushed the tip of his thumb inside Sammy’s asshole.  “Doin what she’s told…”  He pushed his thumb all the way in.

Sammy was whimpering, quivering, his asshole tightening around Dean’s thumb like a hot little mouth.  Dean set his teeth, feeling this.  He was achingly hard.  He started moving his thumb inside Sammy’s ass, rubbing him, seeking to draw out that deep internal pleasure.  He heard Sammy gasping against the mattress.  “Just like that Rollin Stones song,” Dean said.  “How’s it go _…`She’s under my thumb…_ ’”  He laughed softly.  His thumb, rubbing.

 _“Oh,”_ Sammy cried out suddenly.  He was writhing.  “Oh _, Dean,_ _omigod- “_

“Like that?” Dean whispered to him.  Sammy was wriggling, thrusting his ass up against Dean’s thumb.  He moaned.  “You come for me again,” Dean said to him.  “Come through your ass.”  Sammy, convulsing around him, keening.  “You hot little bitch,” Dean whispered.  He removed his thumb suddenly, replaced it with two fingers, thrusting them deep into Sammy’s ass, searching for the hidden point of pleasure and finding it, effortlessly.  Sammy cried out. 

“You like bein treated like a girl, don’t you Sammy?”  Dean asked him.  He leaned over his brother, whispered into the silky hair.  His fingers, rubbing.  Sammy, wriggling, keening.

“You love it,” Dean whispered.  “Don’t you?”

Sammy’s head was tossing.  He gasped silently into the mattress, ribs heaving.  “Answer me,” Dean said.  “Say it.”

Sammy, silent.

Dean’s fingers, buried deep inside his brother.  He rubbed them slowly, relentlessly inside Sammy’s ass, knowing exactly where to put them, now.  Sammy whimpered.   His ass was writhing helplessly.  _“Say it,”_ Dean repeated harshly.  “Say the words to me.”

Sammy, shuddering.

 _“Say it!”_ Dean said.  Sammy was now pressing himself against up Dean’s fingers, straining against them, crying out.  That little ass, thrusting.  _“Say you love it!”_   Dean snapped.  Pressed his fingers against Sammy’s hot flesh.  Sammy moaning, _“Oh-”_

Dean was breathing hard.  _“Sammy-“_

 _“-I love it,”_ Sammy whispered brokenly.  He’d buried his face in the mattress.   He was trembling, the sore red flesh of his ass quivering, his whole body shuddering with the aftershock of pleasure. 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  His own ribs were heaving.  He struggled to speak normally.  “You’re a hot little chick, alright.”  He slowly withdrew his fingers from Sammy’s ass, wiped them deliberately on Sammy’s skin.  “Turn around,” he said.  

After a moment, Sammy turned around.  He lay under Dean, looking up.  His mouth was trembling, Dean saw, his face flushed, fresh tears standing in his eyes.  He gazed up at Dean silently. 

Dean looked back at him.  At Sammy, lying under him, so obedient.   Trembling.

Dean knelt over him on the bed, straddling Sammy’s body with his legs.  He bent down to kiss his brother’s lips.  Raised his head. 

Looked at his brother’s face, under him. 

Sammy was gorgeous, Dean realized, suddenly.  Not just cute.  Not just adorable (although he was all that too).  But now Dean really saw.  Sammy was _gorgeous,_ with that first young flush of beauty.  And Dean was the first to see it, this new beauty of Sammy, now seared on Dean’s memory like a brand.  This fresh, pure new beauty, like a spring dawn. 

“My little virgin,” Dean whispered.  He gazed at Sammy’s face, unable to look away.  His brother’s beautiful face with its heartbreaking expression, so vulnerable, so open to Dean at this moment. 

Sammy, lying under him. 

Waiting for Dean’s next move. 

Dean felt himself shaking.  He whispered, “You ready to take my cock, Sammy?”  

Sammy gazed at him silently.  Dean waited, not breathing now.  At the slightest sign from Sammy, the smallest nod, Dean would have been on him, sinking into him like he’d been longing to do for months, burying his cock into that tight, tight heat, finally.  He waited, shaking from the effort of holding himself still.

Then Sammy spoke.  “…I thought you said I was too young,” he said softly.  He _sounded_ very young, at that moment. 

And nervous.  Scared even.

Dean looked at him.  Sammy wasn’t telling him no, he realized.  Dean could take him, right now.  Could fuck Sammy, right now, with Sammy lying under him, trembling. 

Scared.  But obedient.

Dean sighed. 

Then he took a breath. 

After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders.  “You are,” he said. 

Sammy blinked up at him.  Those big puppy eyes.  Dean shook his head, then gave a short laugh.  “You really _are_ a child bride, Sammy,” he said ruefully.  “I simply can’t do that to you right now, even though, god…I want to.”

Sammy looked up at him silently.  Was that relief Dean saw in his expression?  Dean shut his own eyes, seeing this.  Felt his cock, agonizingly hard, throbbing painfully against his pants.

Then he heard Sammy’s voice saying hesitantly, “Dean…I’m a…I’m _a guy._   Okay?  Callin me your…callin me that…it…it sounds weird.”

...What it _sounded_ like.  _That’s_ what Sammy was focusing on, right now? 

Dean didn’t open his eyes.  “No,” he replied briefly.  He was speaking with difficulty (trying to move on from this moment, thank you, Sam).  “It actually doesn’t,” he said.

Sammy was silent.  Dean opened his eyes, looked down at him.  Sammy, blinking up at him.  Dean felt himself start to smile, in spite of everything.  Sammy, blinking those eyes.  His aggravating, adorable, gorgeous little brother.  

All his. 

Eyes on Sammy, Dean unbuckled his belt.  Undid his jeans, freed himself, his hand around his cock.  Took in Sammy’s nervous expression.

Dean smiled again.  Then he shifted himself up until he was kneeling over Sammy’s face.  “Keep your mouth open,” he said.  “I’m gonna come on your face.”  Sammy stared at him.  After a moment, he opened his mouth.  “That’s it,” Dean said.  He was pulling on himself now, jerking off.  “’N’ keep your eyes open,” he instructed his brother.  “Until the last minute.”  Sammy’s wide eyes, fixed on him.   “Good,” Dean whispered.  He was pulling on his own cock with hard, rapid strokes, the red haze of pleasure rising.  “Raise your face up,” he whispered.  Sammy tilted up his chin, his eyes fixed on Dean.  Kept his mouth open, obediently.  Dean saw the pink flash of his tongue.

Dean was shuddering now.  He released, coming onto Sammy’s face.  Sammy’s eyes closed as Dean’s come hit his face, the liquid spattering onto his lips, his tongue. 

Dean was panting, slowly coming back to himself.  After a moment he pulled up his jeans, re-buttoned himself.  Re-buckled his belt.  Looked down at his brother’s silent, upturned face.   Brushed the back of his hand gently over Sammy’s eyelids.  Sammy’s eyes opened. 

“You’re gonna make me a good little wife,” Dean said. 

Sammy stared up at him. 

They looked at each other.  Dean felt the moment draw out, their shared gaze, Dean’s words hanging in the air between them.

Then Sammy lifted his arms.  Whispered, “Come lie down.”  Dean came to him quickly, cradling Sammy in his arms.  Sammy turned his face into Dean’s chest. 

They lay there, silent.

Eventually, Dean spoke.  “I should give you another spankin,” he murmured.   Sammy tensed.  Dean smiled.  The feel of Sammy in his arms, that warm, precious weight.  “You know why?”  Dean asked him mildly.

“…Yeah,” Sammy said.

“Tell me, then,” Dean said.

“’Cause I…didn’t respect what you said earlier,” Sammy said into his chest.  “When you said the conversation was over.”

“That’s right,” Dean answered, pleased.  “Very good Sammy.  You’re learnin.  So what do you say now?”

“I’m sorry,” Sammy whispered.  He lay quietly in Dean’s arms.

Dean stroked his back.  “Apology accepted,” he said.  “This time.  But that’s your last free pass.  I have to spank you again for not mindin what I say, you’re not sittin for a week.  Got it?”

“Yes Dean,” Sammy whispered.  Then added, “Thank you.”

Dean smiled.

Sammy was learning.  He’d make a good little wife alright. 

Dean stopped smiling, shocked.  A bolt of incredibly sweet, strong feeling had just passed through him. 

His wife.  Sammy.

It didn’t sound weird at all.  It sounded…really great, actually.  Awesome.

Wife.  Partner for life.  _That’s_ what he needed alright, to make his life complete.  A hunter’s wife.  And who else, but Sammy?

His brother had given Dean a word for this thing, a single word to describe what had happened between them.  Given Dean a word, spoken aloud, that expressed this overwhelming _thing,_ this thing that Dean couldn’t ever let go of now, this incredible thing that had happened between him and Sammy.  That Dean had to _have_ now, for the rest of his life.

Sammy, giving Dean this word, like a gift.

Sammy, to be with Dean always.  For his whole life.  For every part of it.  All of it.  For life.  Wife.

But then Sammy’s eyes on him, challenging.

_(I’m not your wife yet)_

Dean shrugged.  Okay, so Sammy had dared him.  Fine.  Dean would take him up on it.

Because Sammy had given Dean this word because…he understood him, Dean saw.  He _understood_ Dean, what Dean wanted.  What he needed.  Sammy understood him _._   Like he always had.

Sammy was so smart.

He always had been.   You couldn’t forget that, about him.  You forgot that, you got burned.

But that was okay.  Because Sammy was Dean’s.  At the end of everything, Sammy was still Dean’s.  All Dean’s.

That rush of sweet feeling, again.   

His gorgeous little wife.  Dean could get used to that idea alright.

“Kiss me,” Dean said to Sammy, tenderly.

Sammy turned his lips up obediently.  Found Dean’s mouth, his own mouth opening. 

“I love bein kissed by you,” Dean whispered. 

“I love kissin you,” Sammy whispered back.

And then they were kissing, on the bed, those long slow kisses like Dean had wanted in the first place, before they’d gotten sidetracked with _talking._   Dean holding Sammy, kissing him over and over, the two of them just lying there, kissing, everything else forgotten.

For awhile.  And then Dean rising, kissing Sammy again, pulling the covers over him and carefully tucking him in.  “I’m gettin us pizza,” he said.

Sammy, looking up at him, smiling.  “Okay.”

“Be good while I’m gone,” Dean said.  He meant it too.  “I don’t want to have to spank you again so fast.”

Sammy looked down.  Then he looked up.  “I will,” he said quietly.  “’N’ you won’t, Dean, I promise.”

Dean bent down and kissed him again.  And again.  “I love it when you’re good,” he said.  He kissed Sammy again.

Sammy had closed his eyes under all the kisses.  “Makes you happy, huh,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.  “Makes me real happy.  Happier than anythin, Sammy.”

“I’m glad you’re happy Dean,” Sammy whispered.  “I want that.”

Dean felt tears in his eyes suddenly.  He blinked them away.  Looked quickly at Sammy to see if he had noticed.  Sammy’s eyes were still closed.

“You’re great Sammy,” he said quietly.  “I’m so lucky.”  Then he kissed Sammy again and left.

It was true, too, Dean thought, as he walked towards the pizza place.  Sammy _was_ great.  Given the proper incentive (and avoiding a spanking with the hairbrush was pretty strong incentive)…so that he wasn’t walking around with a face that looked like he was sucking on lemons…or cutting Dean to pieces with his tongue…or grumping about their dad…or looking so sad and bitter and distant that Dean felt like dying…or the thousand and one _other_ bitchy things he could do to make Dean miserable…when he wasn’t doing any of those things, Sammy was…

…a total sweetheart.

And all Dean’s.

For always, for life.

And that was totally awesome.

 


	27. Chapter 27

Sammy was sweet in so many ways.

First of all, there was the way he would kiss Dean.

Dean had noticed this right from the very beginning, right from when they’d first started.

Sammy would kiss him like…it was the only thing he was supposed to do.   Like if it was the last thing he did on earth, it would be enough, kissing Dean.

That smooth supple mouth, that tongue, receiving Dean so generously and seeking him out at the same time, and Dean’s awareness of the _person_ behind that exquisite mouth, that scary-smart Sammy brain, those jumping Sammy thoughts, all focused on Dean at that moment, because Dean, that focus on Dean, that was all that mattered.

Sammy, kissing him. 

Like a drug.  Like a drink (the finest whiskey ever).   Like the hunt. 

Like the shocking thrill of the hunt, the thrill of that hanging moment of the balance of life or death, either the hunter or the hunted to walk away but never both, because the focus of the hunt was death and that was its reward.

Yeah, it was kind of like that.

And Sammy knew it too (Sammy was so smart). 

And Sammy kissed Dean that way.  And Dean kissed him back, just like that, knowing, _needing_ to know, that Sammy was feeling…the same thing.

That kissing.  It was the sweetest thing in this life.

Kissing each other in their room.  Often, Dean could barely wait, barely wait until they were alone.  He’d open the door to their motel room, Sammy standing behind him, enter their room, take a quick gander around (determining no intruders, living or undead) and gesture Sammy in.

Sammy, crossing the threshold, eyes on Dean (he knew what was coming), dropping his bag on the floor, closing the door behind him, reaching behind himself to lock and chain the door.

Dean, coming to him, putting his hands on both sides of Sammy’s face, trapping Sammy’s face between his hands, trapping Sammy up against the closed door, pressing Sammy against the door, pressing his hard cock between Sammy’s legs, Sammy gasping now against his mouth. 

Dean’s mouth on Sammy’s mouth, licking him, biting him, thrusting his tongue into Sammy’s sweet mouth.  And then…Sammy’s mouth seeking his, Sammy’s tongue curling against his tongue, Sammy’s hands at his waist, Sammy rubbing his cock back and forth against Dean’s cock, that slow exquisite friction that had been on Dean’s mind all day, that rub on his mind.

The two of them, leaning back against the door, kissing fiercely, mostly silent, intent on doing this, just this, this kissing, because the kissing was the only thing that mattered and if they died while doing it, well that was alright.

(And then eventually moving on to other things, either naked things or…not naked things like training or homework or dinner, but that didn’t matter, because this kissing, it was its _own_ thing, set apart, this complete focus on each other, this exquisite final focus).

So that was great.

And then kissing Sammy in other places.  Like the Impala.  Or at school (under the west wing stairs near the boiler room).  Or in a park (really late at night/early in the morning, if Sammy and he were out, wandering around).  Or in the woods, or a farmer’s field, or the local (makeout) lookout point (again, really late at night) or…any hidden, outdoor place…basically any place where Dean was confident they wouldn’t be seen.

Yeah, kissing Sammy was great, anywhere.

And dangerously addictive.

Sammy was in grade nine now and he and Dean were back in the same school together.  And while _that_ was great (to spend the whole day close to Sammy, to know exactly where he was), it was also…incredibly frustrating and distracting.

Dean had to deliberately restrain himself from seeking Sammy out between (every) class or waiting by his locker like a fool, from hanging with Sammy every lunch period (I mean, a grade twelve hanging with a grade nine for _every_ lunch period, it was just…a little too visibly weird and them being brothers didn’t really make it any less weird…so Dean disciplined himself to hang with Sammy every _second_ lunch period).

But sometimes…Dean just couldn’t wait until after school.  He needed a taste of Sammy to tide him over (and figured it’d be good for Sammy, too).  So he’d wait in the hall for Sammy to leave class, not right outside Sammy’s classroom door of course, but a little ways away.  He’d see Sammy exiting the room, his eyes automatically scanning for Dean.  Dean would catch Sammy’s eye, then stroll away, casually.  And then meet him a couple of minutes later, under the stairs in the basement, the two of them grabbing each other, kissing _(dying, right there),_ Dean palming Sammy’s cock roughly through his jeans, Sammy moaning softly into his mouth.  And then eventually breaking reluctantly away, the two of them panting, staring at each other.

Sammy (his ribs heaving).  “I gotta get back.  The bell’s gonna ring.”

“Yeah,” Dean answered (also breathing hard).  Staring at Sammy.

Sammy, not moving.  “You gotta get back too.”

Dean smiled at him.  “Nope, gotta spare.”

“Oh yeah,” Sammy said.  “Forgot.  Well you should go to the library, catch up on your studying for the biology quiz.”

Dean shrugged.  “Nah.  C’n do that tonight.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “Do it _now,_ Dean…that way you’ll have time tonight for other stuff.  You’ve got that English essay due too, later this week…remember?”

“Oh yeah…okay,” Dean said.  “`N’ I guess havin more time…tonight…for other stuff…would be good, anyway.”  Dean smiled again.  “Huh Sammy?”

Sammy looked at him.  Then he smiled back.  Dean felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at that smile.  “Sure,” Sammy said sweetly.  “If you’re good… ‘n’ get your homework done.”

“…You little tease,” Dean whispered.  Sammy smiled at him.  Dean stepped forward, hands out to grab Sammy by the shoulders (Sammy clearly needed more kissing).

And then the bell rang.  “Oops!” Sammy said.  “Gotta go.”  He stepped away from Dean, turned and ran lightly up the stairs, leaving Dean staring after him, frustrated.

So yeah, that was school.  Frustrating.  But it had its rewards.

And then, when they were out in the Impala.  Dean driving somewhere out into the country, choosing a back road and driving along that for awhile.  Parking.  Looking at Sammy, sitting quietly beside him.  Jerking a thumb over his shoulder.  “Backseat.  Now.”

Sammy, clambering into the backseat (a wide, comfy low seat like a couch, those guys at Chevy knew what they were doing back then, you didn’t see cars like _this_ anymore).  Sammy lying there, looking up at Dean expectantly.  Dean joining him, taking Sammy in his arms, kissing him, kissing his brother, Sammy wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and clutching Dean to him, his sweet hot mouth open, moaning softly into Dean’s mouth.  And then the two of them kissing, sometimes for a long time, just kissing, before moving on to other things, by then Dean’s cock so hard that it didn’t take much to finish him off, just the touch of Sammy’s hand sometimes, or his mouth, sweetly circling Dean’s cock and then Sammy gasping as Dean thrust hard into his mouth, coming strongly into Sammy’s mouth, unable to wait.

And then driving, after they’d calmed down, to get an ice cream at the local Dairy Queen or McDonald’s.  Or maybe going to a drive-in if their current town happened to have one (double feature, with extra-large popcorn – both of them loved zombie movies).

And sometimes, kissing Sammy when they were on the road, those endless long trips between jobs, hours in the car along the interstates and highways, their dad pulling into a gas station, filling up, heading towards the restaurant for a meal.  “See you boys inside.”

“Okay Dad.”  And Sammy, retrieving the washroom key from the gas station clerk.  Meeting Dean in a skeevy men’s washroom, dirty tile floor and soap stained sink, yellowed toilet with the seat up, but that didn’t matter, because it had a door that could lock, and Sammy and Dean would clutch each other fiercely in that gross little washroom, banging up against the wall, kissing each other, panting, sometimes one or the other of them ending up on his knees, his brother’s cock in his mouth, the other trying not to moan, trying to keep quiet.

And then afterwards, joining their dad at the restaurant, sliding into the booth across from him, their dad with a menu open, grumbling.  “What took you so long?”

“Sorry Dad, just wanted to stretch our legs,” Dean said (conscious of Sammy’s eyes on him, Dean not looking back at him on purpose).

Their dad.  “Uh huh…so what are you havin?  I got us coffee already.”

And Dean, skimming the menu, sliding the tips of his fingers under Sammy’s thigh next to him in the booth, the discreet pressure of Sammy’s thigh.  The lovely warm weight of Sammy’s thigh, the knowledge of Sammy, sitting next to him, both of them waiting out the long hours until they were alone again and then Sammy to be all Dean’s again, finally, naked, in their bed.

Kissing Sammy.  It was always great.  And Dean needed to do it, a lot.  He needed to have that mouth under his, open, that curling little tongue, Dean dying under the touch of that tongue, that mouth.  He needed it, like oxygen.  Anywhere he could get it.

Kissing Sammy.  So completely and utterly sweet.

…And the cuddling.  That was utterly sweet too.

Sammy had always been cuddly (other than his brief, fearsome period as a wailing, furious two year old).  Cuddling on Dean’s lap.  Snuggling up against Dean to watch TV, or propped against him in the backseat of the car (before Dean was large enough to sit up front with their dad).  Crawling into Dean’s lap crying after a whipping from their dad (or from Dean, later), holding his arms tearfully out for cuddles.  And cuddling against Dean whenever he was upset about anything else (like being taken out of school yet again because of one of their frequent moves), burying himself against Dean’s side, his chest heaving.  And don’t forget the way Sammy would cuddle against Dean at night, in their bed.  That warm, precious bundle of Sammy in his flannel pajamas, his arms around Dean, breathing softly against Dean (who kept him safe).  Dean would remember those nights all his life, Sammy and him, holding each other in the dark, listening to their dreaming, moaning dad, tossing restlessly on the bed next to them.

But cuddling Sammy _now._

It was a whole new level of cuddle.

For one thing, Sammy was naked now, more often than not.  Naked on Dean’s lap, curling himself up into a warm ball, Dean’s arms hugged around him (and taking in the exquisite feeling of that warm smooth skin). 

Or plopping himself on top of Dean if Dean was watching TV, kicked back, a cold beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other.  Sammy landing in his lap with a thump, arms circling Dean’s neck.

 _“Oof,_ Jesus Sammy watch it willya?”  Dean moving the beer out of range of possible spillage.

“Sorry.”  Sammy sitting on him cheerfully, wearing nothing but a pair of thin cotton shorts, and then suddenly curving his body around Dean’s like an eel.  Putting his tongue on the skin of Dean’s throat.  Blocking Dean’s view of the TV with no hesitation.  And Dean surrendering to this, surrounded by the warmth and rub and tickle of Sammy, this Sammy _environment,_ Sammy surrounding him, nuzzling him, pressed up against Dean’s body with cheerful entitlement, snuggling up to him so totally sweet. 

Dean’s sweet teddybear boy.

And then…cuddling with Sammy in bed.  At night.  Coming home, late at night, coming down off a smokin adrenaline high (the hunt) or…trying to get back to himself after those deadly hours playing the con, trying to move away from that strung out, scraped out raw feeling that dealing with those fuckin marks always left him with.

Letting himself into their dark room, closing the door quietly.  Seeking out the huddled shape of Sammy, lying motionless on their bed.  Pulling off his jacket.  Shucking off his shoes.  Approaching Sammy, walking quiet.  Putting his gun down quietly on the bedside table (he’d put it under his pillow, later).  Then pulling off his shirt, pulling off the rest of his clothes.  Looking down at Sammy on the bed, a covered lump, wrapped tight in the blankets.  Reaching out a hand to unwrap him.

Sammy’s voice.  “Brush your teeth.”

“What?”

“Brush your _teeth,_ Dean, you know I hate it when you come to bed with beer breath.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Fine.”  He walked naked to the bathroom, washed up, brushed his teeth.  Came back to the bed.   Sammy was lying on his back now, looking up at him.  Dean smiled at the sight.  Somehow Sammy had managed to twist _all_ the blankets around his body in a tight cocoon.  He looked like a caterpillar.  Dean gestured to his brother.  “Lemme in.”

Sammy wriggled around, unwrapping himself.  Lifted the blankets up.

Dean crawled in beside him, Sammy’s warm nest.  Snuggled up against his brother, the bare, silky skin.  Took Sammy in his arms.  “Hey.”

Sammy’s head, turning towards his chest, tucked under his chin.  Sammy’s hair, ticking.  “Hey.”  Sammy’s drowsy voice.  Sammy’s arms (and legs) wrapped around Dean now, Sammy doing his clinging monkey thing (Dean loved that thing).

Dean stroked Sammy’s satiny back, his hand finding Sammy’s ass, the firm, bare round cheek.  He squeezed.  “You been good while I was gone?”

“Yes Dean.”

Dean patted him.  “That’s my SammySam.”

Sammy’s cold nose, against his chest.  “How was it?”

Dean spoke into his hair.  “Fine.  Pulled in twelve hundred.”

“Wow.  Not bad.”

“Yeah.”

“All from one guy?”  Sammy asked.

“Nah…” Dean answered.  “There were two...’n’ Dad ‘n’ me got a group bet goin.”

“Did anyone get mad?”  Sammy asked.

“Couple did,” Dean said.  “Dad took care of ‘em.  Not goin to be able to go back to _that_ bar, though.”

“Uh huh,” Sammy said.  “So how did-“

Dean interrupted him.  “Sammy…I don’t wanna talk about it.  Okay?  It’s done, we got our cash, I’m home.  This is _my_ time now.  With you.  Okay?”

“…Okay,” Sammy said, softly.

He was quiet.

Dean stroked him.  “I love the feel of you,” he whispered.

Sammy’s nose, against Dean’s chest.  His arms and legs, wrapped tight around Dean.  His slim, strong fingers, finding Dean’s cock, circling it.  “You want some?”  Sammy murmured.  Sammy’s thumb, stroking slowly over Dean’s cock.

Dean took a breath, feeling his cock twitch in Sammy’s hand.  “Maybe in a bit,” he said.  “Let me just hold you for awhile.”

Sammy’s hand, now resting against Dean’s thigh.  “Okay.”

Dean had buried his face in Sammy’s hair.  He was breathing deep and slow.  The smell of Sammy.

“You smell just like you always do,” he murmured.

Felt Sammy laugh.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When you were a baby,” Dean said.  “Your hair.  Your head.  You smelled exactly like this.  Sammy-smell I’d call it.  I’d know it anywhere.”

“Oh…” Sammy said.  “What does it smell like?”

“The best smell in the world,” Dean said. 

“You were puttin your nose in my hair, even then?”  Sammy asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “All the time.  I’d pick you up…bounce you up ‘n’ down to stop your fussin.  Put my nose on you.  Buh buh buh, like that.”  He demonstrated, mashing his nose and lips into Sammy’s hair.

 _“I_ don’t remember fussin,” Sammy said.  He’d leaned his head into the pressure of Dean’s lips.

Dean smiled.  “That was after you were older.  When you were like, one or two you’d fuss like a bitch.”

“…Were you the one pickin me up all the time?”  Sammy asked.

“Most times,” Dean said.  “Sometimes Bobby, if we were with him.”

 _“That_ must have been somethin,” Sammy said.

Dean laughed.  “Yeah.  You scared the crap outa him.  It was funny.”

“What about Dad?”  Sammy asked.  “Didn’t he pick me up too?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He remembered their dad, holding wailing baby Sammy in his arms, looking down at Sammy’s face. 

Their dad’s face so dark and sad it hurt Dean to see it.  Scared him.

Dean holding out his arms.  “Lemme take him, Dad.”

Their dad, handing Sammy to Dean wordlessly.  Dean taking Sammy from him carefully, their dad turning, walking away, getting as far away from Sammy as was possible in their small room.  Their dad sitting down on his bed, head lowered, putting his head in his hands, Dean’s eyes on him, worried.  Then Sammy, blinking up at Dean, his small eyes bright with tears, his little baby mouth open, wailing.  Dean jouncing Sammy in his arms, whispering “Shh Sammy, s’okay, okay?”  Walking around, jouncing him, Sammy a heavy weight in his arms (he was a fat baby, you wouldn’t know it from how skinny he got, later), Dean sitting down with him (as far from their dad as possible), holding Sammy on his lap, rocking him (maybe giving him a taste of the Dewars), Sammy quieting down finally, looking up at Dean from the circle of Dean’s arms, those bright baby Sammy eyes. 

Dean closing his own eyes with relief, but with a picture of his family against his eyelids.  Dean, Sammy and their dad, the three of them motionless, sitting silently in their small room.  The three of them, sitting still and silent.  Dean’s eyes, seeing this, tight shut against his baby brother’s head, Dean’s nose in Sammy’s hair. 

That baby Sammy smell.

Dean’s eyes were closed, remembering this.  How old had he been?  Five or six, maybe. 

And then a little older, their dad, glaring starkly at wailing toddler Sammy, his eyes exhausted and red rimmed.  “Dean, shut him _up,_ Jesus, my head’s gonna explode.”  Dean, holding Sammy nervously on his lap, Sammy wriggling.  Shrieking.   Dean whispering, “Shh Sammy, be quiet!  Shuddup now!”  Sammy glaring at Dean furiously.  Thrashing his small body about.  Shrieking.  Their dad.  _“Dean!  Christ!”_   Dean, tearful now under two sets of furious eyes, his own voice almost a wail.  “What’m I supposed to _do,_ Dad?”  Their dad, throwing the Impala’s keys in Dean’s direction.  “Get him outa here!”  Dean, grabbing for the keys in a near panic, almost dropping Sammy.  Juggling the keys and Sammy to let himself out of their motel room, letting the two of them into the parked Impala, sliding into the car’s back seat with his thrashing shrieking brother.   Lying down in the back seat with Sammy in his arms.  “Sammy, shh, shh, please Sammy, shuddup, okay?”  Letting his own tears come, finally.  Crying into Sammy’s hair, the two of them lying there, crying. 

And then Sammy quieting, looking up at Dean’s tearful face.  Reaching up to touch the tears on Dean’s face.  And Dean, quieting too, getting himself back under control.   Then Sammy’s voice.  “Dean?” 

“What?” 

“Are you sad?”

Dean, the tears coming again.  “Yeah Sammy I’m sad.”

“Why?”

“…Cause you’re cryin,” Dean answered.

“ _I’m_ not cryin,” Sammy said.

Dean laughing now, through his tears.  “Guess not.  Feelin better, huh Sammy?”

Sammy nodding.  Then asking Dean curiously, “Why we here?”  

“You mean, in the car?” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Sammy said.

“Cause Dad said.”  Dean answered.

Sammy looking at him, those wide eyes, still glossy with tears but calm now.  “Is Dad comin too?”

“Nah, he’s still in our room.”  Dean said.  “He’s not feelin so good, so he wanted us out here cause you were bein loud.”

Sammy, looking at him.  Then snuggling against Dean, suddenly.  “I like it out here,” he said.

Dean closed his eyes, his brother’s small body warm against him in the cool air of the car.  “We’re gonna have to go back in soon,” he said.  “Now that you’re quiet.” 

Sammy’s silky head, snuggled under Dean’s chin.  Sammy, lying on Dean’s stomach, the two of them resting quietly in their car’s comfortable back seat in the dark motel parking lot.  All by themselves in that peaceful dark.  “No,” Sammy said.  “I wanna stay here.”  Dean not answering. 

He’d closed his eyes, put his nose into Sammy’s hair, breathing in that Sammy smell.  Breathing Sammy in.

“Dean?”  Sammy’s voice.  Dean opened his eyes.  His fourteen year old brother, naked in his arms, his silky head snuggled under Dean’s chin.  Their room, dark and private and peaceful around them.  “What?”

“What about Dad?”  Sammy asked him again.

“What about him?” Dean answered.

“Didn’t he pick me up too?” Sammy asked.

“Sometimes,” Dean said.

Sammy was quiet. 

Then he said, “But mostly you.”

“Yeah, mostly,” Dean said.

Sammy, quiet again.  Then he said, “Dean…c’n you tell me somethin from before I remember?”

“…What, like a bedtime story?” Dean asked, amused. 

“Yeah.”

Dean thought about this.  His brother, back then.  Yapping, wailing, curious Sammy, and always with Dean.  Sitting on Dean’s knees, curled up with him in bed (or in the car), bouncing around while Dean tried to wrestle him into his clothes (“Sammy, jeez, stay _still_ willya?”), yanking on Dean’s hand in a gas station parking lot _(“Dean look!  A dog, c’n I pet it?” “-Careful, Sammy, we gotta make sure it’s friendly”)._

Sammy, practically stapled to him.  Little brother.  Like an extension of Dean’s own body.

Dean smiled.  He was quiet, thinking back.  Then asked, “Do you remember when we buried the crow?”

“No…” Sammy said.  “When was that?”

“When you were about three,” Dean said.  “You sure you don’t remember?”

“I don’t think so,” Sammy said thoughtfully.  “C’n you tell me?”

Dean thought about the crow.  He felt tired, suddenly.

“…I’m kinda tired,” he said.  “Rather go to sleep.  Okay Sammy?  It’s been a long day.”  He put his face in Sammy’s hair again.

“C’mon,” Sammy said.  “Please?”  He snuggled closer to Dean.

Sammy, snuggled up with Dean, in their dark bed.  Sammy’s arms and legs around him, his hair tickling.  That silky Sammy head under Dean’s chin, filled with Sammy thoughts. 

Sammy, cuddling up with him.  Like nothing else in the world. 

Dean sighed, giving in.  “Okay…”

Their dad was away on a job.  He’d told Dean he’d be gone for a few weeks, leaving him and Sammy with Uncle Bobby, Dean with strict instructions to look after Sammy and not bother Bobby too much.  Dean was fine with that.  He was used to looking after Sammy by now, keeping him out of the way (especially when Sammy was being irritating), and anyway, Bobby’s house (and that yard, full of cars) was large and fascinating, with lots of places to hang out undisturbed (unlike the cramped motel rooms), and Bobby was easy going, for the most part.  A lot easier going than Dad, much as Dean loved their dad, Uncle Bobby was a lot easier to be around, for sure. 

Plus Bobby _liked_ Sammy.  Dean didn’t get the feeling their dad _liked_ Sammy, all that much.  He spent a lot of time glaring at Sammy.  Or not looking at him, either one.  Or worst of all, looking at Sammy when he didn’t think Dean saw, with such a sad, angry look in his eyes, it was scary.  It made Dean’s stomach hurt, seeing their dad look at Sammy like that. 

And Sammy didn’t look at their dad much better.  He was always glaring back at him, even when he _wasn’t_ being punished.  Or worse, _talking_ back to him.  Dean sometimes felt like a wall, standing between his brother and dad, the two of them pounding on him to get at each other.  Those two sets of eyes, both black with rage, glaring at each other over the protective stone wall of Dean.

Yeah…so being at Bobby’s…not having to do _that_ all the time…it was like being on holiday.

Bobby had bought Sammy a blue plastic race car, from Walmart.  Sammy would sit in it, steering and Dean would push him from behind, running as fast as he could through the avenues of rusting cars, Sammy shrieking with delight. 

“Faster, Dean, faster!”

“I’m goin as fast as I can, dumbass.”  Dean panting.

“Whee!”

Sammy, turning them to the right.  Coming up upon a dark shape, lying in the dirt.  “What’s that?”

Dean stopped.  “Stay there.”  He walked around Sammy, peered at the black, broken body.  “It’s a crow,” he said over his shoulder to Sammy.  “It’s dead.”

“C’n I see?” Sammy asked.

“Okay.”

Sammy getting up, coming over.  Standing over the crow’s body. “What happened?”

“Dunno.”

Sammy looking at it curiously, the blank, dull eyes.  “How come it’s not movin?”

“Cause it’s dead,” Dean said.

“What makes it dead?” Sammy asked.

“It’s spirit is gone.” Dean said.  “The thing that makes it alive.”

“The thing that makes it fly?” Sammy asked.

“Yeah.”

“So where’d it go?” Sammy asked.

“I dunno.”

“Will it come back?”

“No,” Dean said.

“Why not?”  Sammy asked.

 “I dunno,” Dean said.  “But Dad said once somethin’s spirit is gone, it can’t come back.”

“Where’d it go?” Sammy asked him.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  “Heaven, maybe.”

“Crows go to Heaven?”  Sammy asked.

“Sure, why not?” Dean said. 

Sammy looked at the dead crow, his eyes thoughtful.  Then he said, “Is that gonna happen to you ‘n’ me?”

“What, bein dead?”  Dean replied.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Eventually.”

“Our spirits’ll go away?” Sammy asked.  “Like the crow’s?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Like the crow’s.”

Sammy looked upset now.  “When?” he asked.

“Not for a long time, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Don’t worry.”

Sammy was silent, looking down.  Then said, “Why do things have to die?”

“I dunno,” Dean said. “But they do.  That’s what Dad said.  He said everythin has to die sometime.  Cause it’s the `natural order of things.’”

“What’s _that_ mean?” Sammy asked.

“I dunno,” Dean said (although he kind of did).  “But that’s what Dad said.”

He could see Sammy thinking about this.

Then Sammy said, “Like Mom?  Is that why _she_ had to die?”

“…I dunno about that,” Dean said. 

“C’n we ask Dad that when he gets back?” Sammy asked him.

“No,” Dean replied.  “I don’t think so.”

They were quiet.

“Dad’s sad,” Sammy said eventually.  “That Mom’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “He is.”

“If you were gone I’d be real sad,” Sammy said.  He was crying, suddenly, his voice choked.  “Dean.”

“Don’t cry, Sammy,” Dean said.  “I’m not leavin anytime soon.”

“I don’t want you to die,” Sammy said, crying.

Dean laughed (although he sort of felt like crying too, he often did when Sammy cried).  He put a hand on Sammy's shoulder briefly, squeezed.  “Well that makes two of us,” he said.

“And _I_ don’t wanna die either,” Sammy said.

Dean stopped laughing.  “Don’t say that Sammy.”

“Say what?” Sammy asked.

“Don’t you talk about dyin,” Dean said. 

Sammy looked surprised.  “Why not?”

“Because _that’s_ not happenin,” Dean said.

Sammy frowned.  “But you said-“

“I don’t care what I said!” Dean snapped.  “No more talk about you dyin, not ever again, got that Sammy?”

“But-“

“No!” Dean said.  His voice had risen.  “You shuddup now, Sammy.  I mean it.”

“But _why?_ ” Sammy asked him (once he started asking about something he never stopped until he had his answer…Dean knew this by now).

Dean sighed.  “Because that’s not gonna happen, okay?” he said.  He felt a chill, suddenly. 

But ignored it.  “You’re not dyin,” he said to Sammy.  “Ever.”

“Why?”

“Cause I won’t let you,” Dean said.

Sammy looked impressed.  “How you gonna do _that?_ ”

“Cause I’m your big brother, that’s how,” Dean said.  “’N’ I’m not gonna let nothin happen to you.”

Sammy was quiet.  Dean looked down at his brother’s head, bent thoughtfully over the crow’s body, lying in the dirt.

Sammy’s body, lying in the dirt.  Dean felt a wash of panic, rising suddenly.

But no.  That would never happen.  Dean put a hand on Sammy’s shoulder again, feeling the knobby warm bone of Sammy’s shoulder, under his hand.  He closed his eyes.  Sammy.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “C’n we bury it?”

Dean opened his eyes.  “What, the crow?”

“Yeah.”

Dean considered.  “Yeah, okay, I guess.  Where?”

Sammy looked around him.  Then pointed out a smooth patch of sandy dirt, in the shade of one of the rusting cars.  “There.”

“Okay.”  Dean carefully picked up the crow’s body and carried it over, Sammy following him.  He knelt down.  “Help me then,” he said to Sammy.

Sammy knelt beside him.  They scooped out the dirt out with their hands, digging a shallow hole.  Dean placed the crow delicately into it.  Then he and Sammy covered it over, patting the dirt over the crow’s body in a mound.

“What’s goin to happen to it?” Sammy asked.

Dean was smoothing down the mound.  “It’s goin to rot,” Dean said.  “Turn back into earth.”

“Is that what happened to Mom?” Sammy asked.

“No,” Dean said.  “She burned.”

“Where?”

“In our house,” Dean said.  “You _know_ that already Sammy, remember I told you?  She burned up in our house.”

Sammy was quiet.  Then said, “Is that why we don’t have a house now?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered.  “That’s why.”

“…Are you sad Mom’s dead?”  Sammy asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Sad like Dad?”  Sammy asked.

“No, not like that.” Dean said.

“Why’d she have to die?” Sammy asked.

“I _told_ you, Sammy,” Dean said.  “I dunno.”

“Dad didn’t stop it?”  Sammy asked.

“He _couldn’t_ Sammy,” Dean said.  “He tried.  Did everythin he could.”

“But he couldn’t,” Sammy said.

“No.”

Sammy was silent.  Then said, “But _you’re_ gonna stop it.  You’re not gonna let _me_ be dead, like Mom.”

“That’s right,” Dean said.  “I’m not gonna let that happen to you.  You’re stayin right here.”

“With you,” Sammy said.

“Yeah.”  Dean was quiet.

Sammy didn’t answer.  He looked silently down at the mound of earth. 

Then he said, “I’m not lettin you die too.”

Dean was confused.  “What?”

 _"I’m_ not lettin you die too,” Sammy said.  He looked up into Dean’s face. 

Dean saw his eyes, their colour so changeable with their surroundings, Sammy’s eyes a grey blue colour now, reflecting the sky above them.  Those bright Sammy eyes, fixed on Dean.  “You’re stayin here too,” Sammy said to him.  He smiled slightly.

Then took Dean’s hand.

Sammy’s little hand. 

Dean stood there, holding Sammy’s hand.  He was shaking, suddenly, shaking with fright, but he didn’t know why.  But he didn’t want Sammy to see that, on his face.   He quietly held Sammy’s hand. 

Closed his eyes. 

Now Sammy, lying in Dean’s arms. 

“Why’d you tell me _that?”_   Sammy asked him curiously.

Dean opened his eyes.  “I dunno,” he said.  “It just came to mind, I guess.  You don’t remember that, huh?”

“No,” Sammy said.  Then asked, “What were you so scared of?  At the end.”

“I’m not sure,” Dean said.  “Scared of losing you, I guess.  You know I’m always scared of somethin happenin to you.”

“…It didn’t sound like _that’s_ what you were scared of,” Sammy said thoughtfully.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  He felt impatient, suddenly.  “I don’t know why I told you about that in the first place,” he said.  “Not exactly a great bed time story.  I shoulda told you about that time you got into Bobby’s incantation supplies – you took all these like _obscure_ things out of their jars and baggies and started buildin a tower with ‘em on the kitchen floor.  _Boy_ was Bobby pissed…not only did he have to put everythin away…he had to figure out what a bunch of that stuff _was,_ again, not so easy cause a lot of it was dried past recognition.  Said he wasn’t confident for _years_ after, that a spell wouldn’t blow up in his face because he’d put somethin back in the wrong jar.”  Dean laughed.  “You wanna hear about that?”

“I think I just did,” Sammy said, dryly.  “But thanks.  And anyway…it _was_ a good bed time story Dean.   I’m glad you told me.”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He stroked Sammy’s hair.  “C’n we go to sleep now?”  He looked at his brother.  Sammy had moved himself around while Dean was talking and was now lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  Dean reached out an arm, pulled Sammy back against his chest.  Put his nose into Sammy’s hair.  “C’mere,” Dean murmured to him.  “I want to cuddle with you now.  No more talkin.”

“Okay,” Sammy said agreeably.  Then he turned onto his side, spooning himself into the curve of Dean’s body.   Snuggled his butt up against Dean’s crotch.  Dean drew in a breath, feeling his naked cock rub up against those warm smooth curves.  Sammy snuggled closer, wriggling that butt of his around.  Then he reached a hand back between his legs, found Dean’s cock with his fingers and pulled it forward gently, settling it comfortably between his own legs, nestled against the soft pad of his balls.   Ran his thumb lightly over the tip of Dean’s cock.  “There” Sammy said.  Then he sighed.  Wriggled that butt around again.  “Well…g’night.”

Dean was achingly hard now.  He thrust his cock into the warm Sammy nest his brother had so thoughtfully created for him.  “You little… _god,_ Sammy, you’re such a tease,” he muttered.

“I’m not _teasin_ you,” Sammy said sweetly.  “I’m just _cuddlin._   Like you wanted.”

“Sure,” Dean said dryly.  He was nibbling on Sammy’s neck now, his arms around Sammy, his hands splayed on Sammy’s chest.  He felt Sammy shiver, deliciously.  “Just like I wanted.  You _always_ give me what I want, don’t you Sammy?”  He was murmuring now, nuzzling Sammy with his lips.

“Yeah Dean,” Sammy murmured back.  His voice was a smooth glide of whiskey.  “That’s what I do alright.” 

Dean pinched his nipple sharply.  Sammy gasped.  Then he thrust his butt back against Dean’s crotch.  Dean was shaking now.  He suddenly grabbed Sammy’s shoulders, flipping him onto his back.  Saw Sammy’s face for a brief moment, staring up at him, in the dark.  And then Dean was on top of him, pressing Sammy down into the bed, kissing him, thrusting his tongue into Sammy’s mouth.  Felt Sammy’s exquisite response, his tongue licking Dean’s tongue, his arms and legs coming to wrap tight around Dean’s body.

Dean started thrusting against him, fucking against Sammy’s crotch, his cock rubbing hard against Sammy’s cock.   Sammy lying under him, so sweet.  Dean thrust a hand deep between Sammy’s legs, into the crease of Sammy’s ass, seeking out the furled little pucker of his asshole.  He was going to lift Sammy’s legs over his head, put his mouth on that sweet little asshole, work it until Sammy was wriggling and crying and begging.  Sammy not the only one who could tease, thank you very much.

Sammy was gasping, shivering like he often would, shivering in Dean’s arms, shaking with pleasure.  It was awesome. 

But then Sammy said breathlessly, “It’s me you’re scared of.”

Dean froze.  “What?”

“That story,” Sammy said (still breathless).  “You said you were scared, at the end.  Said you didn’t know what you were scared of.”

 “…You bringin that up _now?”_ Dean asked him.  He raised his head, looked down at Sammy’s face.

Sammy gazed back at him.  “You said you didn’t know what frightened you,” he said, his voice normal now.  “But it was me.  You were frightened of me.”

“What the… _fuck_ do you mean?” Dean asked him.  He was getting mad.  He glared down at Sammy’s face.

Sammy stared back at him calmly.  “You said you're scared of losing me,” he said.  “But that’s not it.  Or not _all_ of it, I mean.  You’re not just scared of losin me.  You’re scared _of_ me.  Why?”  He gazed at Dean.

Dean gazed back at him, wordless.  Then he found he suddenly couldn’t look at Sammy any longer.  He rolled off of him and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

Stared up at the ceiling silently, conscious of Sammy lying next to him, quietly breathing.

Dean thought about what Sammy had said.

Dean, frightened of him.  Scared of Sammy.  It should have sounded ridiculous.  But it didn’t.

Dean considered.  Was he mad at Sammy for saying that?  He’d started to be (at Sammy, interrupting Dean with his smart mouth after teasing him into such a state, his brother, so aggravating, just _asking_ for a spanking).

Uh huh. 

But Dean found he wasn’t mad.  Not mad at Sammy, for throwing those words in his face (and at _such_ a time, Jesus), because…

Because Sammy was right.

He was so smart. 

Fuck.

Sammy, getting to him, every time.  That mouth of his.  Lethal. 

Dean sighed.  Then said, “Fine.  You really want me to answer that?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  “I really do.”

Dean sighed again.  “Okay…so…you’re right.  You _do_ scare me Sammy.  You’re right about that.  You’re one scary little fuck.”

“…Why?”  Sammy’s voice was small.  He didn’t sound scary at all.

Dean smiled slightly.  Then he stopped smiling.  He said, to his brother, “You scare me because…you’re so important to me Sammy that everythin you do…everythin you say…just the way you _breathe_ even…it affects my _whole life._   And that’s scary as hell.”

Sammy was silent.  Then he said, “But I can’t help that.  Dean.  Are you holdin that against me?”

Dean considered this.  Sammy, asking him that.  “Sometimes,” he said.

“…You shouldn’t,” Sammy said quietly.  Dean heard something in his voice.  He turned his head, looked at Sammy’s upturned face, lying beside Dean’s, looking up.  Sammy, also staring at the ceiling.  Dean saw the glimmering track of a tear, sliding down Sammy’s cheek.

Dean felt his stomach clench.  He leaned forward, put his lips against Sammy’s cheek.  Felt the warm tears, more of them now, sliding against his lips.  He folded his arms around Sammy’s body, drawing his brother against him.  “SammySam,” he murmured into Sammy’s cheek.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

Sammy was crying freely now.  He turned to Dean, wrapping his arms and legs around him again.  “I don’t want you to be scared of me like that,” he whispered.  “Please Dean.  Can’t you stop?”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “I don’t know.”

 _“Why?”_ Sammy asked him.

“Because…because if somethin happened to you Sammy, if somethin happened…to you…to us…it would hurt me…it would hurt me so much I don’t think I could bear it,”  Dean said.  He felt his lips tremble, suddenly.  He pressed them together.  Then continued, “I’d be… _destroyed_ Sammy, if somethin like that happened.  And that’s real frightenin.  Don’t you see?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  “I see.”  He sounded very sad.

Dean stroked his back. 

“But it’s not my fault,” Sammy whispered. 

Dean held him.  “You’re right,” he said quietly.  His chest was tight.  “It’s not your fault.  I’m sorry.” 

“And that’s not really why you’re scared,” Sammy said in a different voice. 

Dean heard this new voice.  He was motionless now, listening.

“And I think you know that,” Sammy said in that new voice.

Dean was cold, suddenly.  There was something, he sensed, behind those words, that could unleash a world of hurt.  And he didn’t really want to see what.  Not right now.  And probably not ever. 

He undid Sammy’s arms and legs from around his body, freeing himself gently.  Then turned onto his back, looking up into the dark.  Painfully conscious of his brother, lying quietly by his side. 

“Sammy…” Dean said, “c’n we stop this?”  His voice was strained.

“Why?” Sammy asked him.

Dean was silent.  What he was about to say…it was very important.  Important to moving on from this moment, this moment that could stop both him and his brother cold.

Dean felt the weight of what he was about to say, heavy in his mouth, the weight of fragile, heavy words, like glass.  He spoke carefully.  “Sammy…you know you c’n…hurt me.  You know it.  You know you…c’n _destroy_ _me…_ just by…not bein.  Just by…not bein with me, like I need.  You know it.  I’ve said it.  I’ve admitted it, I’ve laid it out on the table for you, right under your eyes.  Isn’t that _enough?_   Do you really have to _prove it?”_

“I don’t know,” Sammy said.  His voice was impersonal, like a stranger.  “Do I?”

Dean was shaking.  He felt the touch of Sammy’s hand, beside him, but made no move to take it.  “Please Sammy,” he whispered.  “Stop.”

“Or what?”  Sammy, asked, in a mild tone.  He could have been asking about the weather.  “You’ll punish me?”

“Do I have to?” Dean asked him.  He’d closed his eyes.  He was shaking.

Sammy was silent.  Dean aware of him, like pain, lying there beside him, on the bed.  Sammy, breathing quietly in the dark, so close to him.  Dean dying, lying beside Sammy, like this.

Then Sammy, speaking.  “No,” Sammy said.  His voice had changed again.  It was soft now, like warm, soft air.  “You don’t.”  He turned towards Dean, put his arms around him.  Snuggled up against Dean’s side.  “You don’t have to, Dean.”  He was kissing Dean’s cheek now, kissing his lips.  “I’ll shut up now,” Sammy murmured against Dean’s lips.  “I’ll be good.”

Dean raised his face to Sammy’s mouth.  “You’ll be sweet to me,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Sammy whispered back.  “I’ll be sweet to you.”  His legs were wrapped around Dean now, along with his arms.  He was cuddled closely against Dean again.

Dean put his own arms around Sammy, his baby.  “That’s all I want,” he whispered.  “Holdin you Sammy, bein with you…like this…that’s all I want.”

“I know,” Sammy said.  Kissing Dean, again.

Those kisses.  Sammy’s mouth, on him, so utterly sweet.  Dean could die right now, die right here in Sammy’s arms, under the touch of Sammy’s mouth and that would be okay, that would be more than enough to ask of, for this life.

But then Sammy’s arms, wrapped so close around him.  Sammy’s body, right there, pressed up against Dean’s body, insistent. 

Sammy wouldn’t let him go so easy.  Because Sammy was committed, just like him.  Dean knew that too. 

And that was good, that was okay, that was also utterly sweet. 

The sweetness of that knowledge, too.


	28. Chapter 28

Sometime after Sammy turned fourteen, Dean started taking him out in the middle of the night.

Not on a school night (usually).

But sometimes, if Dean had been out with their dad and woke Sammy up in the middle of the night anyway, well…sometimes they just didn’t go to sleep again.

Dean would still be too wired, maybe.  Or maybe Sammy would be stir crazy from being cooped up in their motel room for hours (and waiting on Dean, always a little worried about him…or sometimes a _lot_ worried).

So they’d get up.  Get dressed.  And go out, in the early hours of the morning. 

And they’d just wander around.  Not doing anything in particular, most times.  Except for one important thing.

Holding hands.

Dean had held hands with Sammy when he was a toddler, learning to walk.  And as a little kid too (holding Sammy’s hand important to Sammy’s _survival_ as he was frighteningly curious…about everything).  But not since Sammy was six or seven.  Their dad had made them both too self conscious about it.

But now they held hands again.

They couldn’t just stroll around during the day holding hands, of course.  That would look just…way too weird and draw too much attention (and it wasn’t like Dean didn’t get enough attention as it was).

But Dean loved holding Sammy’s hand (and Sammy loved it too, Dean knew). 

So Dean created opportunities for them to do it.

So he’d wake Sammy in the middle of the night and the two of them go for a walk, walking the dark silent streets of a town or country lane, or finding a park to stroll through, under the moon.

And they’d walk, holding hands, sometimes talking, sometimes not. 

Dean loved these peaceful nights, these walks with Sammy, holding his brother’s hand.

They’d walk for hours sometimes, in the dark, through the loneliest places they could find (graveyards were always a safe bet), relaxed in the dark (as their dad’s sons they had a tolerance for dark lonely places, and both of them were armed, of course).

If the weather was warm, they’d sometimes go swimming at night (last summer, when their dad had been on a job for several weeks in Virginia and they were crashed at an abandoned farmhouse near a quarry, they went swimming at that quarry pretty much _every_ night that Dean was home).  And that was great too, swimming naked in the dark silky water, coming together, kissing, floating under the moon and stars, holding hands in the dark water.

And sometimes they’d stay out until dawn, find somewhere to sit, watch the rising sun, Sammy leaning on Dean now, nestled against him, sleepy, his arms around Dean’s waist.

So, walking around, hand in hand, in the dark. 

Getting up in the middle of the night to walk around like that. 

In secret.

It was what they had. 

But it was still great.

Sometimes they’d hold hands in other places, if they could get away with it…like movie theatres, sitting in the back row not too close to anybody, just holding hands, crunching popcorn, staring at the screen.

Or in the Impala, whenever Dean had it, Dean driving, Sammy sitting shotgun beside him, holding Dean’s hand lightly, or resting his own hand on Dean’s thigh.

So sweet.  It was one of the best things about being with each other in this new way, holding hands.

But they had to be careful though, of when _not_ to hold hands.  Of when not to forget who they were.

Of when not to touch each other.

And that could be tricky. 

Touching each other had always been so natural, and had been, like, forever.

It was the _not_ touching that had always felt unnatural (forced on them by their circumstances, or their dad).  Forced.  Painful.

And especially now.

Not touching each other was like…not drinking, even if they were thirsty and there was an ice cold jug of water, just sitting there.  Not touching was like…pretending they didn’t have hands anymore, when they actually did.  Not touching.  It was just…about as painful and awkward and unnatural as the most painful and awkward and unnatural thing you could think of.

But necessary.

Because what they had was secret.  And forgetting that could create…awkward moments. 

Dean, loading a bag of laundry into a coin operated machine, at the local laundromat on an early Saturday afternoon, the long room empty except for one other customer, a tired looking middle aged woman a few machines down.  Patting his pockets, swearing.  “Shit, I’m out of quarters.”

Sammy, coming into the room, his arms around another duffle bag of laundry.  “Here Dean.”

“Thanks.  You got any quarters, Sammy?  I thought I had enough.”

Sammy putting the bag down, reaching into his front jeans pocket for a handful of quarters, handing them to Dean.  “Here I was savin these for you.”  (He looked pretty pleased with himself).

Dean taking the quarters, gazing down Sammy’s face (so cute).  “Thanks SammySam.”  Bending down for a kiss, not thinking, and then Sammy’s eyes widening, Sammy stepping back quickly.

Dean straightening up, cursing himself, glancing nervously at the woman beside them.  Saw her averted face.  Had she seen anything?   He looked back at Sammy, embarrassed.

And saw the little brat standing there, smirking at him.  Still looking at Dean, Sammy extended the first two fingers of his right hand and brushed them gently against the side of his thigh.  Smiled at Dean innocently.   “Need anythin else?” he asked.  Dean’s eyes were focused on Sammy’s slender fingers (the same two fingers he would slide greased into Dean’s _ass,_ sending Dean to the moon, Dean knew what those fingers were capable of alright).

“No,” he muttered.  Glared at Sammy.  Sammy smiled.  Brushed his fingers gently back and forth.  “C’n I  get us coffees?  There’s a Starbucks down the next block.”

“..Okay,” Dean said, trying for a normal voice.  “But you come straight back, got it? 

“Sure,” Sammy said.  “C’n I have some money?”

Dean handed Sammy a ten dollar bill ( _Starbucks_ wasn’t cheap…and _Sammy_ always ended up getting himself some double tall mocha latte something something…it was like a hobby with him, to order the weirdest, most complicated coffee he could find).

“Twenty minutes max,” Dean said to Sammy briefly.  “No dawdlin and no strayin off anywhere else.” 

“Okay Dean,” Sammy answering, so sweet.  He folded the ten dollar bill carefully and took his time about stuffing it into his front jeans pocket.  Dean watched him, helplessly.  Then Sammy turned to leave, raising a hand to Dean casually.  Exited the laundromat, Dean’s eyes on him.  Was the little brat switching his ass like that on _purpose?_  

Dean took a deep breath, collecting himself.  He was painfully conscious of his hard cock, pushing against his jeans.  Well, it would go down eventually if he ignored it (Dean had gotten used to dealing with this problem in public, in the vicinity of Sammy). 

And as for _Sammy,_ that little tease, well, once their laundry was done and they were back at the motel, he was going to have some serious making up to do, getting Dean into this state.  Dean was going out later with their dad, but Sammy and he had a few hours to kill first.  He’d been planning to _train_ with Sammy this afternoon but…nah, that could wait until tomorrow. 

Dean glanced at his laundromat neighbour again.  She was staring at him now (but not because of Sammy, Dean was pretty sure, probably for just the usual reason…his _face)_.  Dean smiled at her, saw her eyes widen.  “Nice day,” he drawled.  The woman swallowed.

So yeah, Dean and Sammy had to be careful, when they were out in public.  And mostly, it was awkward (and kind of funny), if they forgot.

But they also had to be careful around their dad.  And that wasn’t so funny.

Their dad, knocking on their motel room door.  “Dean.”

Sammy darting up (he’d been sitting naked on Dean’s lap), grabbing his clothes, running to the bathroom.

Dean walking slowly to the door, doing his best to collect himself, conscious of his flushed face.  Opening the door.  His dad’s impatient expression.  “Took your time.”

“Sorry Dad.”

Their dad entering the room.  Glancing around.  “Where’s Sammy?”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“Why is that boy always in the bathroom?”  his dad asked grouchily.  (Sammy usually not wearing much when he was in their room these days, running to the bathroom to put on his clothes every time their dad knocked on the door).

“Dunno, Dad.  Guess you’re always droppin by when nature calls.” 

Their dad’s eyebrows going up.  “Don’t be a smart ass.”

“Sorry.”

Their dad looking at him closely now.  “Why’re you so red?”

“Doin sit ups,” Dean said.  “Tryin to do two hundred a day.”

Their dad nodded, pursing his lips.  “That’s good son.  Make sure Sammy does them too.”

“I do, Dad.”

The sound of the toilet flushing, water running.  Sammy coming out of the bathroom, clothed (again) in jeans and a hoodie, his shaggy dark hair in a wild tousle over his eyes.

“Hi Dad.”

Their dad, frowning at him.  “Christ Sam, you look like an unmowed lawn.”

Sammy, frowning back.   “It’s okay.”

Their dad.  “No…it’s not.  If you’re goin to grow your hair like a girl’s, at least brush it down.”  His eagle eyes spotting the wooden hairbrush, on the table beside their bed.  Gesturing.  “Go on, do it now.”

Sammy, looking mutinous.  Opening his mouth.  Then glancing at Dean, closing his mouth again.  Going over to the table, picking up the hairbrush, and disappearing into the bathroom.

Their dad, turning to Dean.  “You need to take him to a barber.”

“I will Dad, in a bit.”  (Dean liked Sammy’s hair on the long side).

Their dad shrugged (losing interest).  “I’m goin out, later.  We could use a hit of cash, pay down this place for the next few weeks.”

“You think the hunt will take that long?”

“Probably not.  But there’s some research I want to do at the county archives to do with an…older matter, and that could take awhile.  So I figured two birds with one stone.  You comin with me?”

“You need me to?”

“Can’t hurt.”  (Whenever Dean came out with his dad, they easily doubled their take).

Dean shrugging (he didn’t love going out on the cons, but recognized their necessity).  “Okay.  I was just goin to put on dinner.   You eatin with us?”

“Sure.”  (Dean had been their family’s main cook for the last couple of years and their dad often joined them for dinner, now that Dean and Sammy were rooming separately).

Sammy, out of the bathroom, his hair smooth now, like shining brown silk.  Placing the hairbrush precisely back on the bedside table, bristle side down.

Their dad’s eyes were on this, frowning.  Dean watched him carefully.  Then their dad, turning to Dean.  “What you cookin?”

“Macaroni with chilli sauce ‘n’ hotdogs.”

“Sounds good.”  Their dad sat down at the battered formica table.  “Get me a beer, willya Sammy?”

Sammy going over to the small fridge, pulling out two beers.   Opening them both and bringing one over to their dad.  “Here, Dad.”

“Thanks.”

Sammy going over to Dean, now standing in front of their two burner kitchenette stove, handing him the other beer.  “Here Dean.”

Dean, smiling at him.  “Thanks Sammy.”

Sammy smiling back.  Asking, “How late do you think you’ll be?”

“Dunno, depends on who we get lined up,” Dean said.  “Hopefully not too late.  Don’t wait up for me though.”

“Okay.”  Sammy standing close to him, looking up.  The memory of what he and Dean had just been doing _(Sammy straddling him, rocking against Dean’s crotch, his tongue in Dean’s mouth, Dean’s hands buried in Sammy’s hair, clutching handfuls of that silky hair, Sammy’s hands thrust up under Dean’s shirt, his thumbs on Dean’s nipples, Dean gasping, and then their dad’s knock at the door)_ in his eyes.

Dean, wordless now, paused at the stove, staring at Sammy, their dad forgotten.

Sammy smiling up at him.  Then he touched Dean’s waist softly with one hand and turned away.

And met the frowning eyes of their dad, sitting at the table, staring at him.

Sammy stared back, blinking.  Then dropped his eyes.  “You want me to get plates out Dean?” he asked nervously.

Dean turning around at this (the weird tone in Sammy’s voice) and took in the sight of their dad, staring silently at Sammy, Sammy staring uncomfortably at the floor.  Dean turned back to the stove.  “Sure Sammy.”  Cursing under his breath _(shit, shit, shit)_ , conscious of his cheeks, flushed red again.

He needed to remind Sammy not to act like _(a wife)_  that around him.  Not with their dad in the room, Jesus.  Not smart.  They both needed to remember this.

Then later with his dad, Dean sitting shotgun in the Impala, the two of them driving out to the roadhouse his dad had selected for the con.  His dad’s rough voice. 

“I worry about that boy, Dean.”

“Who, you mean Sammy?” Dean asked cautiously.

“Who else?” his dad grumbled.

“Why?” Dean asked.

“There’s somethin off about him.”

“Like what?” Dean asked.

“He’s still actin kind of young for his age.”

“He’s only fourteen, dad, c’mon,” Dean said.  “How do you expect him to act?”

“Well…not like _that,_ ” his dad said _._   “I mean… _you_ didn’t act like him, when you were that age.  You were tough as nails.”

“So’s Sammy, Dad,” Dean said.  “You’re not givin him enough credit.  He’s a mean fighter.”

“Oh I know he’s a good fighter son, I’ve seen it,” his dad said.  “I’m pleased with how he’s turned out, that way, and a lot of the credit goes to you.  I mean tough in…other ways.”

“Like how?” Dean asked.

“Like he still acts…kind of soft,” his dad replied.  His voice was thoughtful.  “Not so much _young,_ but…girlie, I guess.  You haven’t noticed that?”

“…No.”

“Like the way he grows his hair out till it’s practically ready for pigtails…” his dad said.  “’N’ the way he spends so much time in the bathroom…and the way he…flits around you.”

 _“Flits?”_ Dean said.

“Yeah,” his dad answered.  “He sort of flutters around you.  You haven’t noticed?”

“Um…no, Dad,” Dean said.  “I mean, Sammy’s been around me my whole life and I’ve never seen him… _flutter.”_

“Well _I_ have.”  His dad was silent.  Dean looked at him sidelong.  He didn’t say anything either.

Then his dad spoke again.  “…You don’t think he’s gay do you?”

 _“What?_ No!” Dean said definitely. 

“You sure?” his dad said, “because honestly Dean, I’m kind of wonderin.  I’ve never seen him take much of an interest in girls, not like _you_ do.”

Dean snorted, shrugged.  (Dean made a point now, of flirting with girls and going out on the occasional date, under the approving eyes of his dad and the less than pleased, but resigned gaze of Sammy, who understood the strategy -they’d discussed it- even if he didn’t like it.  Dean also rather enjoyed collecting crushes from the prettiest, most popular girls at his and Sammy’s various schools -it was kind of like a hobby- and there’d been a couple of times his dad had gotten called by the principal because Dean had gotten in a fight with, and decisively taken down, one of those girls’ dumb jock _boyfriends_ …his dad not happy about Dean drawing attention to himself…he couldn’t care less about the fighting…and he was fairly pleased about the girls).

“Dad…” Dean said carefully.  “Sammy’s only fourteen.  Okay?  And _I_ didn’t really have much to do with girls until I was at least…fifteen…remember those condoms you gave me?”

His dad laughed.  “Oh yeah…”

“…And he’s still kind of a shrimp,” Dean continued.  “Still a kid, you know?  Not exactly a girl magnet.”

“Well that’s my point,” his dad said.  “Maybe he’s _not_ a girl magnet.  Maybe he’s playin for the other team.”

“He’s not, Dad,” Dean said.  “Trust me.  Sammy’s as interested in girls as anyone else.  Just give him time, you’ll see.  And relax about his hair, okay?  Just because he likes it long doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

His dad sighed.  “Well, okay.  But keep an eye on him, okay?  It’s not like I have anythin against…that kind…but I wasn’t plannin on raising one for a son.  So let’s not encourage any behaviour in _that_ direction.   Sometimes, the way I see him act around you, I’d swear that was a girl standin in front of me, not a fourteen year old boy.”

Dean swallowed.  “Dad.  C’mon.  You’re readin too much into it.   Sammy’s not girly, he’s just…sensitive, _you_ know that.  He always has been.  But he’s no pushover.  He’s just as tough and sharp as you or me.  Maybe more so.  You _know_ that.  So don’t be callin him a girl, not to me and _definitely_ not to him…okay?  You’ll hurt his feelins.”

“…Would I?” his dad asked. 

“Dad!” Dean said.

His dad sighed.  “Don’t sound like that son, I’m not sayin anythin to Sammy.  I’m just tellin _you_ okay?  Airin my thoughts.  Between us.  Besides, I wouldn’t want to give Sammy any more ideas than he’s got already.”

 _“Jesus,_ Dad, how c’n you say that?”  Dean was mad now. 

“Well would _you_ want that, Dean?” his dad asked him.  “Your brother bein that way, I mean?  Gay hunter…not exactly the best set up.  So we should nip it in the bud is my point.”

“And how’re we supposed to do _that?”_ Dean snapped.

“By not _encouragin_ him, that’s how!” his dad snapped back.  He sounded mad now too.  “If you see him actin like a goddamn girl, tell him to goddamn cut it out, that’s how!  You’re too soft on him Dean, ‘n’ you always have been!  Sammy runs circles around you.”

Dean was furious at this.  “Sammy _doesn’t_ run circles around me, Dad,” he bit back.  “He does exactly _what_ I tell him, _when_ I tell him, which is more than he’s ever done for _you._   So don’t be tellin me I’m too soft on him.  Where’d all your yellin and naggin and punishin ever get you with him, anyways?  He c’n barely be in the same room with you and I haven’t seen you’ve cared to do anythin about _that._   You’d just… _hand_ him off to me whenever you got riled ‘n’ leave the rest up to me.  So don’t give me that shit now.”

His dad was silent.  Then said,

“Maybe leavin it up to you was a mistake.”

 _“…What?”_ Dean said. 

“I made a mistake,” his dad said.

“What do you… _mean?”_ Dean asked him.  He heard his own voice rising, involuntarily.

“I mean…you’ve raised a girl,” his dad replied in a hard voice.  “That’s what it looks like to me.  I gave you the responsibility of raisin a _man,_ Dean, and I guess I shouldn’t’ve.  That was too much to ask of you I guess, you not bein one yet yourself.  I made a mistake.”

Dean heard these words from his dad, like stones, in his ears. 

Dropping into his body, like stones.

“Oh…you’ve made lots of ‘em,” Dean said bitterly. 

“I know,” his dad said heavily.  “No one knows it more than me.  I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t accepting this.

“I didn’t raise a girl,” he said.  “…if you’re implyin Sammy’s _soft._   Sammy’s tougher than either of us and you’d see that, if you’d ever bothered to really get to know him instead of focusin on his _hair,_ for fuck’s sake!”

“Don’t swear at me,” his dad said.

“Fuck that,” Dean said.  He was beyond angry.  “And fuck your goddamn attitude towards Sammy.  You’re so goddamn worried he’s gay.  So if he’s gay…so goddamn _what?”_

“What do you mean, _what?”_ his dad said.  “Don’t you care?”

“No!” Dean said.  “And neither should you!  I don’t see Sammy bein gay.  But if he is…so what?  What does _that_ have to do with him bein a hunter, anyway?”

His dad didn’t answer immediately.  Then said, “Well…nothin, I guess.  Except I’ve never heard of a gay hunter.  It’s a pretty tough gig, after all.”

“You’re confusin gay with bein soft,” Dean said.  He deliberately calmed his voice.  “It’s not the same thing, Dad.”

“Okay…fine,” his dad said.  He sighed.  “I’m not goin to argue with you on that.  But regardless…Sammy’s behaviour isn’t…manly…and it concerns me, okay?  And I’m askin you…not to encourage it.  Okay?  I expect Sammy to act like a _man_ and it’s not too soon for him to start.”

Dean was silent.  Then he answered his dad carefully.  “Dad…I don’t think…that bein girly or whatever way you think Sammy is…is somethin you c’n _encourage._   People are that way or they aren’t.  If a person’s _not_ that way, even if you put ‘em in a dress and call ‘em Sally, you won’t _make ‘_ em that way.  And if they _are_ that way, bein tough with them and yellin at them not to be like that…that’s not goin to make them _not_ be like that.  It’s just goin to piss them off.”

“…So you think Sammy _is_ that way?” his dad asked.

“No!” Dean said.  “I didn’t say that.  I think you think you’re _seein_ things, Dad, where you’re not.  I think you need to relax about the whole deal, is what _I_ think.”

“Hm,” his dad said.

They were both silent.

“It’s hard for me, Dean,” his dad said eventually.  “To relax about something like that.  Havin a gay kid.  Didn’t think I’d have to deal with _that,_ on top of everythin else.”

“But Dad…why should it make a difference?” Dean asked him.  “Sammy’s still your son, right?  And he’s still my brother.  And he’s gonna be one damn fine hunter.  _You_ know that, you’ve seen him fight, shoot.  He’s awesome.  _And_ he’s wicked smart, you know that.  Smarter than either of us.  So don’t rag on him about…whatever else you might think he is.  Okay?  Even if he _is_ gay, it’s not doin anyone any harm…and I don’t want you makin him feel bad about it.”

“Sounds like you think he’s gay and you’ve accepted it,” his dad said.

“Dad…no,” Dean said.  He was nervous now.  “You keep puttin words in my mouth.”

His dad glanced at him.  “Dean, I gotta say…the way he was actin, just now, back in your room…that didn’t look like a normal fourteen year old boy.  I can’t believe you don’t see it.” 

Dean swallowed.  He had to stop this line of conversation, now.  “Who said Sammy was normal?” he asked aggressively.  “Who said _we’re_ normal, Dad?  Is it fair to expect that of Sammy, given the way we live?”

“…How do we live?” his dad asked.  He sounded somewhat taken aback.

“We live _way outside_ of normal!” Dean said.  “You gotta know that Dad.  How’s Sammy supposed to know how to act when he’s never been part of a normal family in his _life?_   Never had a mother,” Dean added deliberately.  Saw his dad flinch.  “And he’s lonely,” Dean added.  “He never gets to make any friends because of what we do.  And I’m not around as much as I used to be…he’s by himself more now.  And you ‘n’ him, you’ve never really gotten along…he’s starvin for… _company,_ Dad, don’t you see?  Don’t hold that against him.” 

“Uh huh.”  His dad didn’t sound convinced.

Dean paused.  Then said the surefire thing to get his dad to back off.   “If Mom were here, she’d see things different.  It’s too bad she never got to see Sammy grow up.”  Dean looked at his dad sidelong.  His dad was staring grimly ahead at the road.  Dean continued.  _“_ I don’t think _Mom_ would've been worried about him, Dad.  She’d think he was the best thing out there…this wicked smart kid…trains real hard…amazing shot…pushes himself…she’d be real proud of him.”

He saw his dad’s shoulders slump.

“Okay Dean,” his dad said tiredly.  “I’ll go along with your word.  If you’re not worried about Sammy turnin out a pansy, I guess I won’t either.  If he does he does, I guess.  It’s out of my hands, either way.”

Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief.  His dad might be suspicious of Sammy’s behaviour (he had the hunter’s keen eye for anything off kilter) but he was a long way from putting two and two together.  Dean was pretty sure that if his dad suspected what was _really_ going on, he’d be speaking to Dean differently…or more likely, not at all. 

But still.  Dean couldn’t let those last words slide.  “Dad…” he said, “Let’s start usin the right terms.  Okay?  No more ‘girly.’  No more ‘pansies.’  None of that.  I don’t want you thinkin about Sammy like that anymore…or usin those words to describe him, doesn’t matter if he’s gay or not.  Okay?  Just stop.”

“…Well how would _you_ describe him then?” his dad said.

“Like…Sammy!” Dean said.  “He is what he is.”

His dad snorted.  “I guess he’s that, alright,” he said.  “No other word _for_ him, I guess.”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “Sammy’s goin to be a great hunter, Dad, you’ll see.  And if you think huntin is the test of bein a man, then Sammy’s aced every test so far.  You gotta re-think what you mean, when you say Sammy’s not bein manly.”

His dad laughed.  “Re-think what it means to be a man?  Is _that_ what you’re sayin?”

“Well…yeah,” Dean said.  “For Sammy, that is.”

“Uh huh…so I guess…for your brother…I should just… _re-define_ my understandin of a man to include…girly and moody and bitchy,” his dad said.

“ –Dad!” Dean replied.

His dad’s voice was resigned.  “Okay, okay, Dean.  Fine.  I understand what you’re gettin at.  You’re wantin me to open my mind around this, I c’n see that.  I’ll try.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Dean said.  He felt the edges of his mouth turning up, kept his expression serious (winning an argument against his dad…that was a sweet thing.  Felt great.  But it wasn’t smart to show it).  Dean added, “It’s not the easiest, what I’m askin, I know that.  But it’s important.  For Sammy.”

His dad snorted.  “For _Sammy._   Not surprisin.  Nothin’s _ever_ come easy with that kid ‘n’ I guess now that includes re-thinkin your most basic notions of character.”

Dean didn’t feel like smiling anymore.  He sat silently beside his dad as they drove through the night. 

Then asked, “Do you…love Sammy, Dad?”

“What do you mean?” his dad asked.

“Whadaya _mean_ what do I mean?” Dean asked.  “You love Sammy don’t you?  You care about him.  Don’t you?”

“How c’n you ask that?” his dad said.  “Of course I do.  He’s my son, just like you.  It’s just he drives me up the wall, sometimes.  No.  Let’s make that _most_ of the time.  But of course I love him.  He’s family.   Why would you even _ask_ that?”

“’Cause sometimes, Dad, the way you act, talk about him…you wouldn’t know it,” Dean said.  “And I don’t think Sammy knows it,” he added.

“Really,” his dad said, thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Well it goes both ways, son,” his dad said.  “The way Sammy is with me…the way he looks at me like he’d rather be a thousand miles away…it doesn’t seem like he’d care one way or another _how_ I felt about him.  Sometimes I wonder whether he’d care if I was _alive_ even, as long as _you_ were around to look after him.”

“That’s not true, Dad, c’mon,” Dean said. 

“Isn’t it?” his dad said. 

Dean didn’t answer.  He thought about this.  It occurred to him suddenly that he really didn’t know.   _Would_ Sammy care if something happened to their dad? (Inconceivable, something happening to their dad…Dean couldn’t even think about it). 

But would Sammy care? 

Dean honestly didn’t know.

Dean felt cold, suddenly.  No.   Sammy _did_ care.  He had to.  The way he was with their dad…it was just Sammy’s natural reaction to the constant criticism their dad seemed to think he needed. 

Dean said, hesitantly, “Dad…it would mean a lot to me, if you accepted Sammy more.  Stopped raggin on him about his hair and such.  Stop worryin so much about the way he acts and start acceptin him for who he is.  He’s a great kid.”

“Well he’s been great with _you,_ I’ll give him that much,” his dad said sourly.  Then he sighed.  “Okay, Dean.  I hear you.  I’ll try to relax about his little…ways.  Even though he seems to _enjoy_ rilin me up.  And you know I’m not the most patient man out there (Dean rolled his eyes at this but said nothing) …so I c’n’t promise it’s all gonna be rosy.  But I’ll try to be more acceptin.  For your sake.  Even if your brother’s behaviour sticks in my craw.”

“I appreciate that Dad, thanks,” Dean said.

“Uh huh.”

They were silent again. 

Then his dad said,

“I’m glad I never had to worry about _you.”_

Dean stared at him.  “What?”

“Goin that way, I mean,” his dad continued.  “You turned out real good Dean.  A fine hunter, tough, reliable, a decent head on your shoulders.  A son any man would be proud of.  I’m fortunate with you.”

Dean couldn’t say anything for a moment.  Then answered, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Sure,” his dad said. 

Then he said, “You know…if I had any doubts about you…that way…we wouldn’t be doin this.” 

Dean froze.  “What…what do you mean?” he asked carefully.

“This,” his dad said.  “The pool hustlin.  If I wasn’t completely sure it wouldn’t mess with your head…I woudn’t be takin you with me.”

Dean swallowed.  “You mean…the way we…work the marks?” he asked (Dean so successful as bait, men laying down their money like nothing for a chance to play against him…but he and his dad had never really talked about it…not in so many words).

“Yeah,” his dad said.  He smiled.  “It’s amazin the way you draw those suckers in Dean, I’d never’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.  You’re like a glow light, attractin all the bugs.  And then –zap!”  He laughed.

“’…N’ you think that happens because the marks, they…” Dean didn’t continue.  He couldn’t say it.  Not to his _dad,_ Jesus.

“Not all of ‘em,” his dad said matter-of-factly.  “Some of them just come over `cause you’re flashy.  Quite a show you put on, it’s like I’m with a circus star.  But some of those marks…they come…’n’ they stay…cleanin out their pockets…because they want…somethin else.”

“Dad, Jesus, seriously,” Dean said.  He was flushed with embarrassment.

“I know what I’m talkin about,” his dad said.  “I’m not an idiot, Dean.  And I know _you_ know what I’m talkin about.  I didn’t _raise_ an idiot either.  And what I’m sayin to you is that…if I thought that…had any potential for messin with your head...you wouldn’t be comin with me.  The money’s not _that_ important – I c’n manage, I always have.”

“…So why _am_ I comin with you, then?” Dean asked.

“Because I’ve raised you to be a hunter,” his dad said.  His voice was grave now.  “And a hunter is a weapon.  You don’t just _use_ a weapon Dean, you _are_ one, in yourself.  You need to understand that.”

Dean was silent, listening.  His dad glanced at him.  “And that…face of yours, Dean, that’s a rare weapon,” his dad continued softly.  “Most people don’t know how to use a weapon like that.  The ones who’re lucky enough to look like you…they’re mostly wallpaper.  Bimbos.  Their face is _all_ they’ve got and they don’t understand _what_ they’ve got.”  His dad looked at him.  “But not you,” his dad said.

“Not me,” Dean repeated.  He looked down at his hands.

“No,” his dad said.  “Your looks…that _effect_ you have on people, Dean, god…and you seem to have it on _everybody,_ everyone starin at you all the time, every woman out there, men…the ones _inclined_ that way I mean...” his dad paused.  Then said, “Come to think of it, even _Sammy_ seems to look at you like that.”

Dean felt his face going white.  “Dad-“ he tried for a laugh.  “You gotta be kiddin.”

“I don’t think so,” his dad said, thoughtfully now.  “The way he was lookin at you, earlier…he looked more like your girlfriend than your brother.”

“Dad, seriously,” Dean said.  “Don’t even say that.  That’s awful.  I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Yeah,” his dad said.  “It _is_ awful and I wouldn’t want to think that about your brother either.  Hopefully I’m wrong ‘n’ just misreadin him.  Like you said, my judgement’s been spotty when it comes to Sammy, and I’ll be the first to admit it.”

“You totally _are_ misreadin him Dad, Jesus.” Dean said emphatically.  “I c’nt believe you’d even _think_ that about Sammy.  He’s my _brother,_ and if he acts…affectionate with me, that’s cause I’m all he’s got.  My _face_ has nothin to do with it.”

His dad was silent.

Dean stared out at the dark highway in front of them.  He was furiously angry suddenly, the rage boiling up, rising out of nowhere.  “This fuckin face,” he said bitterly.  “I don’t want it.  I never _asked_ for it.  I hate it!”

“Don’t talk like that,” his dad said sharply.  “You’re smarter than that.  That face of yours Dean…that’s your mother’s face.  That was her legacy to you, what she _could_ give you, dyin like she did.”

“Well…it’s never done me any good,” Dean replied. 

Then said, viciously, wanting his words to hurt.  “Lookin like her…it’s been a royal pain.”

His dad didn’t answer immediately. 

But eventually said, “I guess I’d have to agree with you.”

His voice was sad.  Dean looked at him. 

His dad was staring straight ahead.  “Watchin you grow up,” he said, “Lookin more and more like her every day…” he was silent.

Then spoke again, slowly.  “Havin your mother with me, Dean, bein around that face, it was like…sharin space with an angel.”  He glanced at Dean, smiled.  Said, “In looks that is, your mother had a temper on her.  But that beauty…havin that with me…havin _her_ …I’d just look at Mary, see her lookin back at me…and I’d be in awe.  I couldn’t believe I was so lucky to have this beautiful creature all to myself.” 

His dad was silent.  Dean watched him, listening.  Not moving a muscle. 

His dad sighed.  Then spoke again.  “We’d go out you know ‘n’ people would just stare at her, gob smacked, like they stare at you…and other men lookin at me just _green_ with envy…and I’d feel so _lucky,_ you know.”  His dad stopped speaking.

Dean stared at him, listening hard, holding himself still, afraid to move, afraid to do anything that might cause his dad to change the subject.

“…But it was frightenin too,” his dad said eventually.  “Mary’s beauty…it seemed like too much sometimes.  Too much for any one person to have.  Like trespassin the borders of nature.  Like somethin bad would have to happen, just to keep the balance.” 

His dad was quiet.

Then said, “And something did.”  He sighed.

Dean was frozen, staring at him, his dad’s hard profile, the hard, sad eyes of his dad, staring out into the dark.  He’d never heard his dad talk like this before. 

His dad spoke again.  “That angel face,” he said.  “Burnin up, before my eyes, screamin…”

“Dad,” Dean said painfully, “Stop.”

“…And now you,” his dad continued, ignoring him.  “Growin up…Mary wasn’t that much older ‘n’ you Dean, when she ‘n’ I first met…and havin that face around me again, Mary’s face, but on _you_ this time, her son…another angel…”

“Dad…”

“…it’s like a knife in my heart,” his dad said. 

His voice was full of grief.

Dean stared at him, wordless.

Then his dad said, in a different voice, “Beauty like that…it’s a weapon, Dean.  A knife.  The sharpest knife in the world.  Your mother knew that.”

His dad looked at him.  Dean went cold, at what he saw in his dad’s eyes.  They were like black holes.  “Your mother gave you her beauty,” his dad said tonelessly.  “And she’d want you to know how to use it.”

Dean swallowed.  “Dad…” he said carefully, “I don’t understand. Why would Mom want that?”

“You’re a weapon, Dean,” his dad said.  He’d turned away, was looking out at the road again.  “Your face…it’s the weapon of a hunter.  Your mother’s gift.  _That’s_ what I’m teaching you.  Learn the lesson.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dean said.  “Why would Mom want that, for me?”

“I don’t want to talk about her anymore,” his dad said.  “It’s enough for one day, Dean.”

“You never do,” Dean said, frustrated.  “It’s not fair, Dad.”

“What do you mean?” his dad asked.

“I mean…what you just told me about Mom…that’s more than you’ve said about her in _years,”_ Dean said.  “And you didn’t even _tell_ me that much.  You never tell me ‘n’ Sammy _anythin_ about her.  And that’s not fair.  She didn’t belong to just _you,_ you know.”

His dad shrugged.  “Learn the lesson,” he repeated.  “The way you look Dean, its effect on people…that has somethin to teach you, about the nature of things.  Learnin that will make you a stronger hunter. Give you an edge that could be critical, some day.  And when that’s clear to you, when you _understand_ that lesson… _that’s_ when you’re ready to hear the rest.”

Dean felt like killing him. 

“…You say doin what we’re doin…isn’t goin to mess with my head,” he said bitterly.  “Why’re you so sure, Dad?”

His dad was silent.  Then he shrugged again.  “Because you’re my son,” he said.  “I’ve raised you to be what you are, a stone hunter, the best out there.  I’ve forged you, Dean, like steel, to be a weapon against evil.  And if I didn’t know, deep down, that _that’s_ what you are…pure steel, through and through…I’d be leavin you behind, with Sammy.”

“…Sammy’s steel too,” Dean said.

His dad sighed.  “Sammy is…I don’t know what Sammy is,” he said.  “I’m not sayin he’s not a weapon in his own right.  But he’s not steel, like you.”

Dean didn’t like that.  “Sammy’s goin to be huntin with us one day, Dad,” he said.  “Sooner rather ‘n’ later, I hope.  He’ll prove himself to you.  You’ll see.”

His dad didn’t answer immediately.  Then said, “I guess we’ll both see.  For his sake and yours Dean, I hope you’re right.”

They were silent again.

“Are we nearly there?” Dean asked after a few minutes.

“Nearly,” his dad said. 

“I’m right about Sammy,” Dean said.  “Trust me on this.”

“I do son,” his dad said.  “I’ve trusted you with Sammy all your life.”

Dean closed his eyes.  His dad, trusting him with Sammy.  Just like that.  With that.  That gift, like pain. 

Sammy, given to him, in trust. 

“I’ll learn what you need me to learn,” Dean said quietly.  “I won’t let you down.”

“I know,” his dad said.  Dean heard the pride and love in his voice.  It was like a knife, twisting in his heart.  “You’re like your mother,” his dad said.  “Pure steel.  The most beautiful thing in the world.”

“…She’d understand, right?” Dean said.  “About what I’m doin.”

“What do you mean?” his dad asked.

“…I mean…about me…playin bait.” Dean said after a moment.  “When we’re out like this.”

“Yeah,” his dad said.  “She would.”

“About me…bein a weapon,” Dean said. 

“Yes,” his dad said.  “She’d get it.”  His voice was toneless again. 

But then he said, after a pause, “She’d be proud of you, son.  You were tellin me how she’d be proud of Sammy.  But don’t forget yourself.” 

Dean looked down.  He felt tears rising suddenly.  But he didn’t want his dad to see.  He closed his eyes.

They drove on, silently.

“We’re here,” his dad said.  They pulled into a wide parking lot, populated with cars and RVs and pickup trucks, and off to the side, rows of commercial rigs.  There were several buildings arranged at the far end of the lot – a gas station and garage, dark now, a row of motel rooms, and two brightly lit, rectangular buildings, one with a sign on its roof flashing (Family Restaurant), and another squat, smaller building with neon signs in its windows (Coors), and another sign over its door (Steve’s Bar and Tavern). 

Dean’s dad parked the Impala some ways away.  The parking lot was full.

“Busy place,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” his dad said.  “I’ve heard it’s a place.”

They were both silent.

“Well,” Dean said eventually.  “Let’s make some money.”  He started to open the Impala’s door.

“Wait,” his dad said.  Dean looked at him.

His dad was gazing at him.  Dean stared back, arrested.  His dad’s eyes looked different now.  His dad’s whole face looked different, as he gazed at Dean.  Dean’s chest felt tight.  His dad, looking at him like that.  He looked like…a _dad._

“I’m proud of you too, son,” his dad said roughly.  “I’ve raised a fine man, in you.  You’re _my_ legacy, Dean, the reason I keep goin.  And if I didn’t trust you, like I trust the sun to keep on risin…there’d be nothin.  You’re my huntin partner.  I’d trust you with my life.  I _do._   You understand that, don’t you?”

Dean closed his eyes again.  “Yeah Dad, I do,” he said quietly.  “And thanks.”

“Yeah,” his dad said.  Didn’t say anything else.  Then, “Okay, let’s go.”

He and Dean got out of the car.  “How do you want to do this?” Dean said.

“Lemme go in first,” his dad said.  “Scope the place out.  I’ll strike up some conversation and then you come in.  Gimme a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  His dad nodded, walked away.

Dean scanned the dark parking lot, saw some picnic tables on a patch of grass in the distance.  He ambled over, sat down on one of the picnic tables, waiting.  Looked up at the stars, white and cold against the black curtain of the sky.

His dad, trusting him.

Totally clueless about how Dean felt about Sammy.

About Sammy, who was _his_ now, who he’d never let go of now, couldn’t.

Sammy, who Dean would stare at from across their room, meeting Sammy’s eyes, holding them _(Sammy, gazing back at Dean with those eyes),_ Dean not believing he was so lucky.

To have Sammy looking at him like that, his, all his, in their room.

Dean had understood _exactly_ what his dad was talking about, when he’d said that about their mom.  He understood exactly what it meant, to feel like that, about another person.

Dean felt a sharp grief, for his dad, all over again.  To feel like that about someone and have them taken away, so suddenly, and in violence…

If something happened to Sammy like that he’d die.  He wouldn’t be able to go on.  Wouldn’t _want_ to go on.  How did his dad do it? 

Because of them, Dean realized, suddenly.  Him and Sammy.  His sons.  His legacies.  The human weapons he’d forged, in the years after their mother’s death, to release against all the evil bastard things out there who thought that they could prey on human beings.  Who thought that humans were…soft, ignorant.  Nothing but fodder for their own dark unnatural requirements, to be eaten, taken, turned…destroyed in any way it suited them.  To be pinned up against the ceiling and lit on fire, like Dean and Sammy’s mother.

Their mother, the love of their dad’s life.  Taking their dad’s life with her, when she died.  It would have been easy for their dad to follow her, Dean saw.  Follow her into death.  And their dad had been tempted.  Dean saw that.  He understood that.

But their dad hadn’t.  Because he had a job to do first.  He had to finish raising his sons.  To be his weapons, inheriting the legacy of revenge.  To ensure that his wife, their mother, hadn’t died in vain.

And their dad, trusting Dean with this, his deepest hope.

Dean thought about this.  Pure steel, his dad, had called him, with such pride.  Hunter.  Weapon, like his dad wanted.

 _(I’ve raised a fine man, in you)_  

Trusted.  With _everything_ (including Sammy).  Dean, his dad’s partner.

Dean felt sick. 

How could his dad have been so wrong?

Everything his dad had called him, all those words, placed on Dean like weights on his back…they were all a lie.

Dean wasn’t made of steel.  He felt frighteningly human, as warm blooded as everyone else _and_ messed up in the head too, whatever his dad might say. 

And not only that (and it was hard, hard for him to even _think_ about himself like this)…he was just as much of a pansy (his dad’s words) as Sammy. 

His dad had said he had no doubts about him.  Not in the way he did about Sammy.  Or he’d have left Dean _behind_ with Sammy.  He’d been very clear about that.

And he couldn’t have been more wrong.  And not just about Dean’s feelings for Sammy.

Dean’s dad seemed to think Dean could just…play the marks, like he did, like it wasn’t _personal._ Like Dean could just…do that…hook those men in like fish, without it… _affecting_ him.  Like he really _was_ just a weapon of cold, impersonal steel.  Using himself as a means to an end.  Professionally.  Impersonally. 

Taking no pleasure in it.

Two weeks ago and three states over.  Dean and his dad working their con at a different roadhouse (but different only in location and the most superficial details, another squat, cement block building with fluorescent beer signs on the windows, surrounded by a large parking lot filled with a similar mix of vehicles and rows of massive trucks parked around the back).

Dean had just wrapped up his third game against a mark, who was now out five hundred bucks and halfway between laughing it off and pissed off (Dean had kept the second and third games close, drawing them out, letting the mark get close enough to smell the win…his dad snapping at him in the background to lay off, stop risking his money, Dean snapping back at him…his dad’s angry voice, “You’ve had too much to drink, stop bein an idiot!” the mark stepping in, backing Dean up, “Leave him alone mister, he c’n play if he wants- ”  And by the end of the third game, a group gathered around their table, watching.  Groans and cheers when Dean sank the eight ball). 

So the mark had lost the game sure, but he’d lost against…this magic kid.  This _star,_ and the mark had felt it too, the star power surrounding Dean, Dean could see it.  The mark had felt like a star too, for that brief period, sharing in the charged atmosphere Dean always created around himself, that luck-magic aura of danger and possibility that drew a fascinated audience.

And now Dean had another taker, eager to lay his money down.  To be the one to take down this sharp, flashy _(beautiful)_ kid, so full of himself, and funny too, joking with his first opponent (who’d stalked off), talking back sassy to that grumbling, older man with him (a tough looking dude, but apparently helpless in _this_ situation, reduced to wringing his hands in the background).

The kid looked tired.  Not so eager to bet his winnings.  “Okay, one more I guess…what’s it gonna be?  Fifty?  Forget it.  One-fifty?  Nah, man forget it.”  Turning to the older man, “Let’s go.” 

“About time.” 

The new mark, the one who’d bet one-fifty, standing undecided.  Dean flicked an eye at him.  He was about to put more money down, Dean saw.  Dean looked away, his expression disinterested.  Took a swig of his beer.  The guy opened his mouth.

But then the _first_ mark returning, another man with him.  The mark, staring at Dean.  “You hustled me.” 

Dean shrugged.  “No man, just played you is all.  You were good.”  He turned away. 

The mark, “Not so fast, kid.  You’re givin me a chance to win it back.” 

Dean glanced at him.  The mark looked pretty determined.  Dean met his gaze, then raised his eyebrows _(what you got?)._   The mark stared back.  Then he laid a fan of five one hundred dollar bills out on the rail.  Stared at Dean silently.

Dean looked at the cash, then at the two men.  “Five hundred more,” he said.

The mark and his buddy laughed.  “You gotta be kiddin,” the mark said.

Dean looked at him.  “Six hundred,” he said.

The mark stared.  Dean noticed the colour of his eyes suddenly, a clear, light grey.

Dean’s dad stepped forward.  “It’s time to go.”  He put a hand on Dean’s arm.

Dean shrugged him off, “Nah, I’m good.”  Stared at the mark.

Dean’s dad.  “You’re just sayin that because you’ve had too much to drink.” (And Dean _had_ been drinking – he’d allowed the mark to buy him another round as incentive for the third game – and he _liked_ drinking when he played pool – it loosened him up). 

“You got lucky,” his dad said.  “And now it’s time to go.”

“Nah –“ Dean said, “I got this.”  He picked up his three-quarters empty beer bottle and drained it.  His dad put a hand on his arm again.  “You’re a fuckin idiot, son.  I’m takin you home.”

Dean shrugged him off.  “Nah, leave me alone, Jesus, I’m tellin you, _I got this!”_   His dad’s hand on his arm again.

The mark stepped forward.  “Fuck off old man.  Boy wants his fun, let him have it.” 

Dean took another look at the mark.  He was a hard faced, strongly built man in his thirties, short brown hair, about the same size and weight as Dean’s dad.  Clearly thought of himself as a tough customer. 

“It’s okay John,” Dean said.  “I got this.  Stop bein a mother hen.”  The mark smirked.

Dean’s dad threw up his hands.  “It’s your funeral,” he said.  “I’m outa here.”  He stalked away.

Dean, looking at the mark.  “Six hundred on top of that five,” he said.  “Then you got yourself a game.”

The mark snorted.  “What you got to bet against _that?”_ he asked Dean.

Dean stared at him silently, his face still and pale, his eyes the rich deep green of the felt topped pool table behind him.  Then Dean said, “…Nothin.”  He flicked his eyes briefly to the mark’s buddy.  Then back to the mark. 

Gazed at him quietly.

The mark stared back.  Then turned to his buddy.  “C’n you stand me the cash?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, man c’mon,” the mark looked at his buddy.  Then spoke in a lower voice.  “I’ll split whatever I get back from this little bitch with you.  Fifty fifty.”

The other man’s eyes on Dean.  “…Okay.  I gotta get some more out.”  Turned and headed towards the bar’s ATM machine.

The mark, looking at Dean.  “Rack ‘em up, kid.”

Dean smiled and started placing the balls back into the triangular pool ball rack.  He took his time, conscious of the mark watching him. 

The mark’s buddy was back, a sour look on his face.  “I hope you know what you’re doin, Carl.”

“I’m teachin this little bitch a lesson, is what I’m doin,” Carl replied, his eyes on Dean. 

Dean smiled at him.  Then said, “Before we get started I need to use the ladies’.”  He saw Carl’s eyes darken.  “I’ll be back,” Dean said.  “Don’t go away now.”  He sauntered casually towards the men’s washroom.

After taking care of business Dean took his time washing his hands.  Stared grimly at his reflection in the small room’s metal mirror.  He was going to bring home this extra eleven hundred bucks.  With that plus the first five (and excluding their initial stake of one fifty), that came to sixteen hundred free and clear for one night’s work.  Not bad.  He was going to lay that stack of bills beside Sammy’s sleepy head.  An offering, against the kind of thing he was doing, here.

This thing that he would _never_ tell Sammy about, not in a million years.

Dean finished washing his hands, slowly wiped them dry.  Took a breath.  Time to work.  He unlocked the washroom door.

Which opened sharply inward, knocking Dean back on his heels. 

Carl shoved through the door.  Then he closed it, locking it behind him.  Smiled at Dean.  “You little bitch,” he said.  “Teasin me all night.”

“What you talkin about?”  Dean said.  “Get outa here!”

“Uh uh,” Carl said.  “Now that I got you away from your daddy, we’re gonna re-negotiate.”

“No man,” Dean said.  “We’re playin for eleven hundred bucks.  That’s the deal or I walk.”

“I don’t think so,” Carl said.  He stepped close to Dean.  “I’m gonna let you keep your five,” he said softly, “You earned it with that little show of yours.  But in return…you’re gonna give me up what you’ve been teasin.”

Dean took a step back.  “I don’t know what you’re talkin about asshole,” he snapped.  “Get the fuck away from me!”

Carl smiled.  “Or you’ll do what?” he asked.  He moved forward, crowding Dean against the wall, his hands on either side of Dean’s head.  He was wearing a wedding ring, Dean noticed.  “You gonna scream for help?” Carl asked him softly.  “…like a little girl?”

Dean stared up at him.  Dean wasn’t physically unintimidating (he was six foot one and hard and fit from years of training).  But Carl was slightly taller and a lot burlier.  Still, Dean wasn’t nervous of him (it was unlikely that Carl knew how to _fight_ like Dean did, or that he was packing a nine inch switchblade).  Dean could take Carl down, scare the bejesus out of him and walk out of here.  But that would leave him up a lousy five hundred bucks for a whole night’s work, not to mention the drive.  _And_ he’d have to listen to his dad grouch the whole way home about Dean getting greedy and pushing this mark too hard, or _sticking_ with him, even, when he’d had other options. 

Nah.  There had to be a better way to do this.

Dean stared at Carl, aware again of the light grey eyes, almost colourless in the washroom’s harsh overhead light.  Said quietly, “You got the wrong idea man.  I don’t swing that way.”

Carl smiled.  “Yeah right,” he said.  His face was very close to Dean’s now.  “You c’n still scream,” Carl whispered.  Dean faced him silently.  Saw that Carl was going to kiss him.  His mind flashed to Sammy, who’d be asleep by now, in their motel room.  Naked, wrapped up tight in his covers, waiting for Dean to come home.  Sammy.  But now this hard faced stranger in front of him, pissed off, turned on.  Ready to teach that smart-mouth boy who’d just hustled him a lesson.

Dean felt himself shaking.  He was achingly, painfully hard, suddenly, a wave of pleasure running through his body.  He saw Carl’s face change as he registered this in Dean’s expression.

Dean smiled at him slightly.  Then he lifted his mouth.

Carl leaned forward, kissed him savagely, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth, his large hands gripping the sides of Dean’s face.  Dean made an involuntary, muffled sound.  This was _not_ like getting kissed by Sammy.  Carl’s face was rough with stubble, his body heavy and hard, outweighing Dean by at least thirty pounds.  He thrust his cock against Dean’s crotch, felt the hard bulge of Dean’s cock.  Put a hand over Dean’s cock, gripping him painfully.  “You hard for me, pretty bitch?” he muttered.

Dean’s breath was coming fast.  “Yeah,” he whispered.  “You got me hard for you.”  His cock was throbbing under Carl’s hand.

Carl was shuddering.  He fumbled at the button on Dean’s waistband.  “I’m gonna eat that cock,” he whispered.  “’N’ then I’m gonna fuck that sweet ass.”

Dean sighed inwardly.  He _was_ enjoying this, to be honest (Sammy would _never_ know), but it was time to move things along.  His knife was out in a flash, held tight against Carl’s groin.  “You’re not doin anythin unless you win the next game,” he said.  “Not unless you want to lose your left nut.”

Carl froze.  “You really gonna stick me with that, bitch?” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I really am.  The deal stands.  We play for eleven hundred bucks.  I win, I walk away with _all_ your cash, the eleven hundred plus the five.  You win, I’ll pay you back your five, and then…” Dean raised his mouth.  Brushed Carl’s mouth lightly with his lips.  Murmured, “…’n’ _then_ I pay the balance.  Any way you say.”

Carl’s eyes had closed.  Dean kissed him, felt the older man’s lips part under his.  “I’ll come to you,” Dean whispered.  “You c’n take your time, with me…”  He was kissing Carl again, curling his tongue into the other man’s mouth, but keeping the flat of his knife tight against Carl’s groin.  “You from around here, Carl?” Dean whispered to him.

“No,” Carl whispered back.  “I’m drivin through.  My rig’s out back.  You’ll come there?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  “You win, I’ll come out to your rig.  Fair’s fair.”  Carl was kissing him back, lips hard against Dean’s mouth.  He’d cradled his hands around the back of Dean’s head.  Dean licked at Carl’s mouth, nibbled him.  Carl was gasping now.  Dean smiled against the other man’s mouth.  Dean was a good kisser, he knew that.  Sammy had taught him that.

“It’s gonna be me and Russ,” Carl muttered.  “He staked me, he’s gonna want his share.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Just you.  I just want you for my first time.”

Carl opened his eyes.  “What?”

Dean smiled at him.  “I’ve never been fucked,” he said.  “You’ll be the first one, Carl.  The first one to fuck my tight virgin ass.”

Carl was frozen, staring at him.  Then he slowly released his grip on Dean’s head.  Stepped back.  “You c’n put that away,” he said, gesturing to Dean’s knife. 

Dean pocketed the knife.  Carl was staring at him.  “You serious?” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“How old _are_ you?” Carl asked.

“Old enough,” Dean said. 

“But what about that guy you were with?” Carl asked.  “That older dude.  Thought _he_ was your daddy.”

Dean laughed.  “It’s not like that,” he said.

Carl’s eyes were locked on Dean’s face.  “You’re one beautiful bitch,” he whispered.

“I know,” Dean said.  “It’s been said.”

“Come with me right now,” Carl said.  “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“No,” Dean said.  “We keep to our deal.  You win, you get me.  And _just_ you, not your pal.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” Carl said absently.

“Good,” Dean said.  “Then let’s go.  Table’s waitin.”

“Why do we have to do this?” Carl asked.  “Just come with me kid.  I’ll make it worth your while.  And I’ll be…careful with you.  I promise.”

“No,” Dean said.  “We play this my way.”

“But _why?”_ Carl asked.  “Why’re you _doin_ this?”

“Cause that’s the game,” Dean said lightly.  He smiled.

Carl looked at him.  Then he smiled back, wryly.  “I’m not gonna win, am I?” he said.

Dean shrugged.  “I dunno,” he said.  Then he stepped forward, his shirt brushing Carl’s chest.  Looked up at the older man’s face, saw those grey eyes darkening. 

“You might,” Dean said.  Carl’s hands were on his waist now.  “You’re makin me want to lose,” Dean whispered. He raised his mouth up.

And then they were kissing again, hands grabbing for each other, rocking into each other, mouths devouring each other hungrily.  Dean gasping for breath, then kissing, letting himself be kissed by this older, larger man, this hard stranger, feeling the man’s large hands cupping his ass, the stranger’s cock butting against him, rubbing against his own cock which was rigidly hard, the stranger’s tongue in his mouth, Dean not thinking about Sammy, not thinking about anything, just doing this, letting himself do this, just to see how it felt.  How it felt to be kissed like this, handled like this, by this stranger, the harsh, shocking pleasure of it.

It felt…pretty good (he’d never tell Sammy).

And then a knock on the door.  “Carl!”

Carl, raising his head.  “Yeah, Russ?”  Dean started kissing his throat.  Carl’s eyes closed.

“You gotta get outa there man!  Someone’s gonna come by and I c’n only pretend I’m waitin to take a piss so long.”

Dean kissing Carl’s throat now, opening his mouth against Carl’s throat, his tongue against the rough stubble.  Carl drew in a sharp breath, then curled his knuckles into Dean’s short hair and yanked his head back hard.  He kissed Dean again, jamming his lips against Dean’s mouth.  Dean made a sound of pain as his lips were mashed back against his teeth.  But then he opened his mouth, opening to the other man’s tongue, sucking on that hot tongue.  He arched his body against Carl’s body, leaning into the other man’s solid weight, rubbing his cock against the hard bulge at Carl’s groin.  Heard the older man gasp, _“God-“_   And then his hands were on Dean’s shoulders, pushing him away.

They stared at each other, breathing hard.  “God…” Carl said again, “You’re so damn hot.  Shit.”  His chest was heaving.  Dean looked at him, wordless.

Carl didn’t say anything else for a moment.  Then called out, quietly.  “Russ –I’m comin out.  Is the coast clear?”

“Yeah.”

Carl’s eyes were on Dean.  “Boy…I am gonna _fuck_ you,” he said to Dean, softly.

Dean looked back at him.  He was also breathing hard.  Spoke with difficulty.  “Eleven hundred dollars,” he said.  “On the rail.  You win…I’m all yours.”

Carl smiled at him.  “Alright you little bitch,” he said.  “We’ll do it your way.”  Then he gripped Dean’s cock suddenly, grasping him hard through his jeans.  Kissed him again.  Dean moaned, another shocking wave of pleasure running through him.

Carl raised his head.  He smiled down at Dean’s face.  Then chucked him under the chin.  “See you outside, beautiful.”  He turned and left the washroom, closing the door behind him.

Of course Dean didn’t let him win.

He took Carl down quickly, not making any pretence of drawing out the game this time.  He’d had his little moment of fun and now it was time to get home to Sammy.

Carl wasn’t pleased, followed Dean out to the parking lot after Dean had decisively whipped him, sunk the eight-ball, and then swept up the pile of bills from the rail with one hand and grabbed his jacket with the other.  Nodded to both Carl and Russ as he turned to leave.  “Good game fellas.”

“You _bitch,”_ Carl said to him in an undertone.  His eyes on Dean were murderous.  Dean shrugged, “Deal’s a deal, man.  Sorry.”  He walked quickly out the door.

And rolled his eyes as he heard the two men behind him.  Turned around in the dark parking lot.  “Fellas, do yourselves a favour and don’t follow me.”

Carl and Russ were close on Dean’s heels.  Carl walked up to Dean and grabbed his arm.  “You’re comin with me,” he said.  “I’m gonna pop that so-called cherry of yours.  ‘N’ when you’re good and fucked ‘n’ cryin for your momma… _then_ it’s gonna be Russ’s turn.  He don’t mind sloppy seconds.  Likes ’em, actually.”  Russ grinned.

Dean sighed.  Then wrenched his arm out of Carl’s grip and drew his knife.  “Go back inside Carl.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

Carl grinned.  “I don’t think so,” he said.  “You see…I figured things might go this way ‘n’ I asked Russ to arrange for some insurance.”  Russ was pointing a gun at Dean now (a .45 calibre, Dean noted absently – he must have had it under his jacket).  “So you come with us like a good little boy ‘n’ I won’t be too hard on you – I _like_ you.  ‘N’ if you do a good job of suckin my cock, I’ll even let you keep some of that cash you teased outa me.”

Dean smiled.  “It’s temptin…” he said (and he _was_ somewhat tempted – he’d enjoyed Carl).  He saw Carl’s expression change as he realized Dean meant that.  “But you’re forgettin I have insurance too.”

Dean’s dad was behind Russ suddenly, his _own_ favourite handgun (a .460 Smith & Wesson Magnum) firmly jammed against Russ’s head.  “Drop it,” his dad said briefly.  “On the ground.”

Russ’s gun clattered out of his hand.  Dean’s dad kicked it over to Dean, who picked it up.  “Now do like my son says,” Dean’s dad said.  “Go back inside.  Try to follow us, I’ll shoot out your kneecaps.”

Carl was staring at Dean silently.  “Go on,” Dean’s dad said. 

“But what about my gun!” Russ whined.

“You pointed it at my son,” his dad said.  “You’re not gettin it back.  You’re lucky I don’t turn you into a cripple, for that.  Now go inside before I change my mind.”

Russ didn’t dawdle.  “C’mon Carl,” he said.  “These guys are psychos.  It’s not worth it –you got kids ‘n’ so do I.”  He turned to go.  Carl stood where he was, his eyes on Dean.  “We’re not done, bitch,” he said. 

“Go inside Carl,” Dean said gently.  “Game’s over.”  Carl stared at him.

His dad gestured with his gun.  “Go on now.  Move it.”

“Your son is a little whore,” Carl said to Dean’s dad.  “Thought you should know.”  Dean flinched.  Carl’s eyes were back on him.  “I hope he spanks you good,” he said to Dean.  Dean looked away.  When he looked back again, the two men had gone inside, leaving him and his dad alone.

Dean’s dad handed Dean’s own gun back to him (Dean didn’t play the cons packing anything more than a knife –not if he was going to be bending over a pool table in a tshirt and jeans).  Then asked, “How much did you take off him?”  They started walking back to the Impala. 

“Sixteen hundred, all in,” Dean said.  “You saw – you were there when I was settin up that last game.”

“Yeah, well, I took off before he bit,” his dad said.  “Missed that.  Must’ve been somethin though.  You really cleaned him out.”

Dean shrugged.  “Yeah it was somethin alright,” he said casually.  “That was one big sweet fish.”

His dad laughed.  Dean walked along beside him, heading briskly towards their car, fingering the wad of bills in his jacket pocket.  He was eager to get back to Sammy.

And now.  Another con to get through.  Dean sat in the dark parking lot, looking at this new roadhouse in the distance.  It was about time to go inside, his dad would have the place scoped out by now.  Time for Dean to amble in.  But he wasn’t ready to, quite yet.

“A hunter is a weapon,” his dad had said.  “You need to understand that.”

But would his dad have understood what Dean had done that last time, out of his sight?  

 _“Your son is a little whore,”_ Carl had said, Dean flinching. 

Dean flinched again, remembering.  What had his dad thought about that?  He hadn't said anything, to Dean.

“I’ve forged you, Dean, like steel, to be a weapon against evil,” his dad had said.

But then Carl, “You’re one beautiful bitch.”  (And the shock of pleasure Dean had felt, and now again, remembering).

“A son any man would be proud of,” his dad had said.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want,” Carl had said.

And Dean, kissing his throat. 

“Why’re you _doin_ this?” Carl had asked, and Dean replying, “That’s the game.”

“Beauty is a weapon,” his dad had said.  His cool eyes on Dean’s face, considering.

Looking at Dean’s face, that Dean had _never_ asked for.  “Your mother’s face,” his dad had said. 

Dean stared bleakly into the dark, thinking about this.    

His face.  All people ever saw, when they looked at Dean (except for Sammy).  “A rare weapon,” his dad had said.

_(The sharpest knife in the world)_

Dean’s legacy.  Dean felt the old grief rising, looked down.

_(Your mother knew that)_

“Your mother gave you her beauty,” his dad had said to him, his eyes empty.  “And she’d want you to know how to use it.”

“Teasin me all night,” Carl had said. “Pretty bitch,” Carl had called him.

“Why would Mom want that?” Dean had asked.

“Learn the lesson,” his dad had said.

Dean looked up at the night sky, the cold, glittering stars.  So distant, separated from him by the black vacuum of space. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.  “I don’t understand.” The stars were silent.

“You turned out real good, Dean,” his dad had said.  “You’re like your mother,” he had said.

Dean’s mom, destroyed by fire.  But giving Dean her face.  Her legacy, passed on.  Living on, in Dean’s face.

 _"A knife in my heart,”_   his dad had said.

His dad’s voice, so full of grief.  And Dean, hearing this.  

“I won’t let you down,” Dean had said.

“I know,” his dad had answered.  Dean closed his eyes, hearing his dad’s voice again, speaking those words, in his mind. 

Pure steel, his dad had called him. 

_(The most beautiful thing in the world)_

“You’re _my_ legacy,” his dad had said (and Dean had closed his eyes).

“I’m glad I never had to worry about _you,”_ his dad had said.

Dean opened his eyes.  Stared across the dark parking lot at the roadhouse, its windows glowing.

“If I had any doubts about you…we wouldn’t be doin this,” his dad had said.  “I’d be leavin you behind, with Sammy.”

Dean got up, started walking towards the roadhouse.  His dad was in there, he’d have identified a mark by now.  An unsuspecting fish, not knowing that he was about to encounter the most tempting bait of his life.

Dean thought about walking in, walking up to his dad, walking past the men and women in there, drinking, yapping to each other, just another night, and then Dean walking in _(“…that face - like sharin space with an angel,”_ his dad had said).  Dean, walking in, a sudden glow in that noisy, crowded room. 

“That angel face,” his dad had said.  “But on _you_ this time.”

Dean, raising his face up in the sallow light of the bar.  Drawing eyes towards him.  Drawing people in. 

Bait.

All that people ever saw of him, that beautiful face of his (thanks Mom).  They didn’t see the steel hook, buried inside.

Dean was just outside the roadhouse door now.  He put his hand on the door’s handle, paused. 

“I’m fortunate with you,” his dad had said.

Dean, standing there, listening to the sounds of music and laughter on the other side of the door.   “Why’re you so sure?” he whispered, staring at the door’s blank face.  “Dad?”

His dad, shrugging. “Because you’re my son,” he had said.

Dean, staring at the door.

“You don’t just use a weapon Dean, you _are_ one, in yourself,” his dad had said. 

“You need to understand that,” he had said. 

And actually...Dean _did_ understand _–that_ particular lesson (thanks Dad).  His dad chose to bring him here, to places like this, to play this ruthless game of beauty _(“the way you look Dean, its effect on people…that has somethin to teach you, about the nature of things”)_ because a _weapon_ must not be personally affected.  Not by desire, not by pleasure.  Not by sex.  Those things, they were only fuel, to be used by the weapon to fulfil its purpose.  Irrelevant, otherwise.  And the sooner Dean figured that out…the better he became at that mental trick in the relatively safe (and lucrative) environment of a bar…the higher his chances of survival would be on the _real_ battlefield of the hunt, against the demons and spirits of the hunt.  Because _those_ things, they _would_ mess with your head.  Those things, they looked for your weakness (what you wished for, what you kept secret) and used it against you. _That_ was their weapon of choice.

So his dad took Dean with him because…he thought Dean could take it.  Blind to any effect it might have on Dean, to do this, except for the one he _wanted_ to see (which was _nothing,_ for it to have no effect, at all).  And blind, also, as to why Dean was so _good_ at doing what he did.  (“You’re makin me want to lose,” Dean had murmured to Carl, kissing him). 

His dad, blind to this, for Dean (but not for Sammy).

And Dean, carrying this blind faith, like a weight.

Dean closed his eyes.  He leaned his forehead against the door briefly.  Then straightened up.

His dad had brought him here to teach him something.  About survival, Dean understood that.

_(I’ll learn what you need me to learn)_

But there was something else to be learned here…something his dad had missed.  Another understanding.

Dean could feel it, tickling against his mind.  He couldn’t see it.  Couldn’t grasp it, not quite.  But he could sense it, that waiting knowledge, on the other side of the door.

There was a lesson behind this door.  But not the lesson his dad thought. 

“You look like your mother,” his dad had said to him, a few years ago.  “She was a beautiful woman.”

Dean felt tears come to his eyes.  He rarely thought about his mom anymore, had almost forgotten her.  If she’d stayed alive, Dean wouldn’t be standing out here, right now.  Their lives would have been different.

Dean turned away from the door, looked up at the night sky. 

Him, Sammy and their dad, they would have been different.  Dean wouldn’t have been such a stranger to himself.  And his dad, his dad would still have been happy.

But Sammy. 

Dean thought about Sammy.

If their mom had stayed alive and they’d grown up a normal family in Kansas, house in the suburbs, a dog...would Sammy have come to Dean like he had? 

It was highly unlikely.

If they’d grown up a normal American family…Dean would probably be on some highschool sports team right now (maybe wrestling), one of those same obnoxious jocks he enjoyed beating down.  And Sammy…Sammy would be a lively, motor-mouth grade niner, nerdy as hell, but with his own posse of nerdy, wicked smart friends, president of the chess club, maybe with a part in the school play (Sammy loved drama club but didn’t bother auditioning, their family’s schedule too uncertain that he’d be there for opening night). 

No, Sammy wouldn’t have come to Dean.  He’d have had his own absorbing, normal American boy life, his own interests, his own friends.  He’d have had a mother, looking after him and smoothing out the rough spots between him and their dad, rather than his barely adequate older brother.  He’d have had a dad who didn’t look at him with empty, bitter eyes, Sammy shrinking and turning sullen under that withering gaze, turning his own gaze desperately to Dean _(accept me, love me, Dean, you’re all I’ve got)._

The Sammy that Dean knew now (that mouth, that hot silky body, Sammy’s voice moaning), that would have stayed unknown. 

Never known to Dean, that part of Sammy, the part Dean couldn’t see himself living without now, the part Dean couldn’t give up.

If their mom had lived Dean wouldn’t ever have known Sammy, like that. 

And he couldn’t imagine now, never knowing Sammy like that.

Dean felt a great longing for Sammy suddenly, a longing to speak with him, hold him.  Soon.  He just had to get through this night, hook a mark, clean him out, get out of here without getting shot.  And then he’d be back with Sammy, holding him, in their bed, stroking his brother’s warm skin.

Dean took a breath.  His brother.  Being with him like that.  His dad would never accept that.  As soon as he'd started this thing with his brother, Dean had crossed into alien territory.  He was unknown to his dad now, living in the dark land of the enemy, the strange land of gods and goddesses and spirits, unconcerned with natural laws.

(“Incest…that’s what this is, Dean,” Sammy had said to him, his head bent over a library book.  “What we’re doin, I mean.  Looks like pretty standard operatin procedure for the gods – you should check out all this _lore.”_   “Uh…no thanks Sammy, I’ll let you do that.”)

A stranger to his dad now, because of this. 

And his mom.  Dean had raised Sammy in her place.  Would _she_ understand, what had happened here, with her baby boy?   Would _she_ be proud of Dean, right now?

Dean didn’t think so.

So separated from her too, and not just by death.

Dean looked up at the stars.  He felt a great distance, from his parents, like a vast black space, inside of him.

But that was okay.  He could live with it.  Because of Sammy.

Dean turned and opened the door. 

Time to work.

Later, coming back to the motel room, entering quietly, slipping off his shoes.  Putting his gun down on the bedside table.  Leaning over Sammy’s mop of tousled hair, the only part of him visible.  Kissing him.  “Hey SammySam.”

“Go wash up,” Sammy mumbled at him.

“I’m goin I’m goin,” Dean said.  “But here.  Brought you somethin.”  He dropped a wad of bills on Sammy’s pillow.

Sammy’s head appeared, popping out of the cocoon of blankets.  Dean smiled.  Sammy’s eyes opened.  “How much is that?”

“Six hundred.  But the take was eleven hundred.  Dad has the rest.”

“Not bad!”

“Nope, not too shabby,” Dean said.  ‘N’ you c’n keep a hundred for yourself.”

“Wow, Dean, thanks!”  Sammy was grinning.

Dean grinned back.  “Sure.  Don’t spend it all in Starbucks now.”  He kissed the top of Sammy’s silky head, then walked to the bathroom, pulling off his shirt as he went.  Cleaned up.  Came back, shucking off his jeans and shorts.  Stood over their bed, looking down.

Sammy was lying on his back now, gazing back at Dean.  Dean gestured at the blankets covering him.  “Get rid of those.”

Sammy wriggled around, unwrapping himself.  Then he flung off the covers, exposing his slender, naked body.  He was hard, Dean noticed.

Dean sat down on the bed.  He stroked a hand along Sammy’s thigh.  Sammy was blinking up at him.  Those eyes.

Dean smiled.  “My baby,” he said.  “You my baby, Sammy?”  He bent and kissed Sammy’s cock.

Sammy’s eyes had closed.  “Yeah.”

Both of Dean’s hands were on Sammy’s body now, rubbing. That warm, satiny skin, only lightly dusted with hair.  “Are you my little girl?” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Sammy whispered back.  “If that’s what you want.”

“My little girl,” Dean was kissing Sammy’s nipples now, first one and then the other, drawing them into his mouth, biting down gently.  Sammy’s breath was hissing through his lips.  He’d put his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

Dean moved down, his lips on Sammy’s stomach now, kissing him.  Then he fitted his lips around Sammy’s cock, gently drawing it in.  Sammy was gasping.  Dean sucked on him for awhile.

Then sat up.  Looked down at Sammy’s face, at the softened, broken open expression, the wide eyes, gazing up at Dean helplessly.

“It’s time Sammy,” Dean said.

Sammy looked at him.  “What?”

“I want to fuck you now,” Dean said. 

Sammy’s eyes on him, silent.  Dean waited, feeling the moment stretch out.

“You gonna say yes to me?” he asked his brother.  “Sammy?”

Sammy looked at him gravely. 

Then he opened his arms. 

“Yes,” he said.


	29. Chapter 29

Dean was leaning over Sam, propped up on his hands, which were on either side of Sam’s face.  Sam folded his arms around his brother, felt the broad shoulders, flexing _._   Dean lowered his head, found Sam’s lips.  Started kissing him.

Sam kissed him back, opening his mouth.  Dean, his brother, coming home to him.  Needing him, needing to sink himself into Sammy, needing to…rebalance himself somehow _(put things right)_ , folded in the arms of Sammy.  Sam could see that.   He opened his mouth, sucked gently on Dean’s tongue.

Then said, “Now what?”

Dean raised his head, looked down at Sam’s face.  Asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean…how’re you goin to…you know,” Sam replied.

Dean sat up.  He looked at Sam consideringly.  Tilted his head to one side.

Sam felt a laugh rising, in spite of the nervous feeling in his stomach.  “You look like you’re figurin out how to stick it in,” he said.

Dean smiled briefly.  “I am.”  He sounded nervous too.

Sam gazed at him.  His beautiful big brother, his eyes on Sam, thoughtful.  Sam said, “C’n you turn on the light?”

“Why?”

“Don’t you think we should see what we’re doin?”

“Okay.”  Dean reached over and turned on the bedside lamp.  Then he reached down and picked up the small pot of Vaseline they kept under their bed.

“Did you wash your hands?” Sam asked him.

“ _Yes_ Sammy, Jesus.”  Dean was unscrewing the lid of the Vaseline.  It appeared to be giving him some trouble.  His hands were shaking, Sam noticed.  Dean got the lid off, then dipped two fingers into the pot, coating them.  Turned to Sam.  “C’n you turn over?”

Sam’s stomach was full of butterflies now.  Said, “You’re not gonna hurt me, are you Dean?”

“I’ll try not to,” Dean said.  “I’ll go slow and careful, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said.  Then he turned over, lying face down on the bed.  Conscious of his bare butt, turned up under Dean’s gaze.  He buried his face in his arms.  His whole body felt tense, his heart racing.  He remembered suddenly that time him and Dean had been up on that cliff above the lake in Washington State (the summer Sam was eleven, hiking over from a hunting cabin they’d crashed at, their dad on a hunt for some weird mountain creature), at least twenty feet above the water, staring down into the deep, icy, blue-green glacier fed lake, transparent as glass.  Sam’s toes curled on the edge of the cliff as he worked up the nerve to jump in, his stomach jumping. 

He felt like that, right now.

“You gotta get up on your hands and knees Sammy,” Dean said.  He sounded as nervous as Sam felt. 

This didn’t increase Sam’s confidence.

He slowly raised himself up on his hands and knees, pushing his butt into the air.  “You know what you’re doin, right Dean?” Sam asked.

“Um…not really, Sammy, I’ve never done this _either_ remember?”  Dean sounded irritated now.  “But we’ve done practically everythin else…how hard can it be?”

“But-“

“Jesus, Sammy, shut up, willya?  You’re makin me nervous.”

“ _I’m_ makin _you_ nervous?”  Sam was also irritated at this point.  “Great,” he said grouchily.  “Just what I need to hear.”

Dean was laughing, breathlessly.  “Fuck, Sammy, you keep talkin like that, I’m not gonna be able to do it.  It’s not exactly a turn on.”

“Since when did you have any trouble with _that?”_   Sam asked him.  He didn’t particularly feel like making things easy for Dean right now, thank you very much.  I mean, it wasn’t _Dean_ on his hands and knees here, butt in the air.

Dean smacked him sharply. 

_“Ow!”_

“That’s enough,” Dean said, briefly.  “Keep quiet ‘n’ let me concentrate.”  Sam closed his eyes.  Waited silently.

Then felt Dean’s fingers, slipping smoothly into his ass.  Finding that deep blazing spot, easy as always, and pressing on it.

 _“Oh…”_ Sammy whispered, the sensation ricocheting through him.  He tilted his butt up against Dean’s hand.  “That’s it,” Dean whispered back.  He moved his buried fingers back and forth in a strong massage, lighting Sam up immediately. 

“Omigod, _Dean-“_   Sam was writhing.

“Hold on, Sammy, that’s just the warmup.”  Dean sounded like he was having trouble speaking.  “Stay still for me, okay?”

Sam’s head was tossing.  “Okay-”

Dean had spread his fingers inside Sam’s ass, stretching him.  He’d done this before, but never as much.  Sam winced.  “Ouch, Dean, that hurts.”

“Sorry,” Dean said.  “It looks like this is gonna hurt Sammy, no way around it.  I’ll go slow, okay?”

Sam took a shaky breath.  “Okay…”  Dean removed his fingers.  “I greased you up good in there,” he said.  Sam heard him fumbling around with the pot of Vaseline.  It clattered to the floor.  “-Shit!”

“What?” Sam asked him.

“Nothin,” Dean said.  “Stay where you are.”  Sam heard him retrieve the Vaseline from the floor and open it again.  Then Dean’s fingers, slick and cold with grease, rubbing the skin around Sam’s asshole.  “That should make it easier,” Dean said.  He was kneeling behind Sam now.  And then his fingers again, on either side of Sam’s asshole, opening it.

Sam felt a waft of cool air against the tender skin, that deep opening into his body, exposed.  He was panicked, suddenly.  Twisted. “Dean-“

A hand clamped down on his butt.  “Jesus Sammy, don’t move.”  Dean sounded like he was speaking through his teeth.  “I’m tryin to line myself up here.”

Sam laughed, in spite of himself.  Then he felt the blunt tip of Dean’s cock, probing his ass.  He stopped laughing.  “Omigod Dean, I’m scared,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said shakily.  “I know what you mean.”  His cock was pushing insistently at the opening of Sam’s ass now.  Sam twitched away, unable to stop himself.  “Sammy –“ Dean’s voice, strained.  “You gotta stay still.  Okay?”  Dean’s fingers were between Sam’s butt cheeks, fumbling at the greasy skin.  Sam felt him re-positioning his cock, starting to probe again, trying to widen Sam’s asshole at the same time, his fingers slipping awkwardly around.

“God-“ Dean muttered.  “This is trickier than loadin a gun.”

Sam started laughing again.  He leaned his forehead against the bed, laughing helplessly, the strength going out of him. 

“Shit, Sammy, shut up!”  But Dean was laughing too.   He leaned forward over Sam, resting his face on Sam’s back.  They were both choking with laughter, breathless.  Eventually Dean said, “This isn’t goin so well, is it?”

Sam was gasping.  He eventually got himself under control.  “Dean, you gotta hurry up ‘n’ do it if you’re gonna do it,” he said.  “My knees are gettin tired.”

“Okay.”  Dean straightened up.  Then said, “Sammy…c’n you stretch yourself out for me?  You know…like you do.”

Sam hesitated (occasionally he would put his own hands on his asshole and open it up under Dean’s gaze, just holding himself open, like that.  It had been a game…it always got Dean so hot and bothered).  But now this was for real.  Sam swallowed.  Then he slowly reached behind himself and put his fingers on either side of his asshole, digging them in to the slippery skin (Dean had really greased him up good), and pulling it open.  Felt the cool air, entering his body.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  “That’s it.”  One hand was on Sam’s butt again, steadying him.  And then the other, positioning his cock carefully.  Starting to push in again.  “Stay still for me Sammy.” Dean whispered.

Sam kept himself rigidly still.  He was barely breathing.  He felt the head of Dean’s hard cock, a much thicker mass to accommodate than Dean’s fingers had been, pushing against his asshole, coming up against the tight ring of muscle there ( _the anal sphincter muscles, interior and exterior -Sam remembered this, from that anatomy book he’d read at the library…glancing around first to make sure no one was looking)_. 

Right now, his anal sphincter muscles felt about as yielding and flexible as iron. 

Dean pushed.  Sam yelped at the sharp pain.  “Ouch — _ouch_ Dean!”  He jerked involuntarily, began to topple sideways.  “Shit!” he heard Dean say.  Sam let go of himself, both hands coming down to balance from falling.  He bit his lip, upset now.  Was Dean going to get mad at him? 

Sam heard Dean sigh.  Then his brother sat back on the bed.  “Turn over Sammy.”  Dean’s voice was resigned.

Sam turned over onto his back, relieved to get the pressure off his knees, but with tears in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, stifled.

“It’s okay,” Dean said.  “It’s not your fault.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean was smiling at him, but his eyes were strained.  “Do you…still want to fuck me?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I really do.  But I think…we’re gonna do it another way.  The way we were goin about it – I’ll have a heart attack.”  He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

Sam looked up at him silently.  Dean smiled.  Then leaned forward and kissed Sam on the mouth.  His lips were tender. 

 _Dean._ Sam put his arms around his brother, holding him closely.  Kissed him back.

Dean raised his head, gazed down.  There was a look in his eyes that made Sam’s stomach hurt _(his brother, looking at him like that…like the only thing he saw in the world was Sam…Sam would die for that look)_.  “Put your hands over your head,” Dean said to him.  “Grab onto the bars.”  (The beds at this particular motel had these painted metal bed frames, with rows of vertical bars on the headboards and footboards…Dean had joked about tying Sam up to them “-gonna spread-eagle you, Sammy“ …but he wasn’t going to do that _now,_ was he?).  Sam stared at him, worried. 

Dean shook his head.  “Just hold onto ‘em,” he said reassuringly.  “That’s all Sammy.”

Sam slowly reached up over his head and grasped the bars.  They were cool under his touch.  He shivered suddenly, aware of his naked body, stretched out flat and vulnerable, on the bed.

Dean was caressing him, running his hands along Sam’s sides.  “That’s good,” he said.  “Now hold tight, okay Sammy?  Don’t let go til I say.”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.  He took a shaky breath.

Dean smiled at him.  Then suddenly his mouth was around Sam’s cock, drawing it down deep.  Sam gasped.  Then thrust up into Dean’s mouth, his cock butting against the back of Dean’s throat (he loved fucking into Dean’s mouth).  Dean sucked on him, his tongue tight around Sam’s cock, working him.  Sam felt the pleasure building, exquisitely.  Then Dean released him, sat back.  Sam moaned.  “Dean-“

“Hang onto those bars, Sammy,” Dean said.  His voice was serious now.  “Just concentrate on that.”

Sam gripped the bars tighter.  He rolled his head, frustrated.  His cock was throbbing, bobbing uselessly into the air. 

“Raise your legs,” Dean said to him. 

Sam slowly raised his legs, turning up his butt.

“All the way up,” Dean whispered.

Sam gripped the bars tightly for leverage and then raised his legs up over his head.

“Spread ‘em,” Dean said.  His eyes were intent on Sam, a dark forest green.

Sam bent his knees, spreading his legs as wide as possible.  He felt his face getting flushed, hot from both exertion and embarrassment.  “ _Now_ what?” he asked snappishly.

Dean grinned.  He patted Sam’s butt lightly.  “Now you just…stay there, Sammy,” he said.  “Just hang onto those bars.  I’ll do the rest.”

Then he bent his head.  Licked Sam’s cock like a popsicle, taking his time.  Sam closed his eyes.  “Omigod,” he whispered.  Dean’s face was buried between his legs now, nuzzling him.  He gently tongued Sam’s balls, licking them thoroughly.  Licked the underside of Sam’s balls.  Ran his tongue over the soft dark skin between Sam’s legs.  Pressed his tongue down between Sam’s legs, strongly, working the flesh with his tongue and lips, a deep pleasure starting to throb there.  Sam rolled his head.  His cock was blazing.  He moved his hips, trying to rub his cock against Dean’s head.  Dean sat up.  “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Dean please…” Sam whispered, agonized.  “I’m dyin here…”

Dean was wiping his tongue on the back of his hand.  “Yech,” he said.  “Vaseline sure tastes crappy.  I’m gonna have to find us somethin else.  Drugstore’ll probably have something that tastes halfway decent, you think so, Sammy?”

“Probably…” Sam said through his teeth.  “C’n we just… _focus_ here, Dean?”

Dean grinned again.  Then he dipped his fingers back into the pot of Vaseline.  “Stuff has its uses though,” he said, conversationally.  And then his greased up fingers were rubbing Sam where his tongue had just been, on the smooth flesh under Sam’s balls, back and forth, pressing down hard.  Sam felt an immediate, satisfying throb of pleasure.  He tilted his butt up higher, seeking more. 

“That feel good, Sammy?” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  “Don’t stop.”  He was trembling.

“Oh, I won’t,” Dean said.  “Next comes that little asshole of yours Sammy.  See if we can’t loosen it up.”  He dipped his thumb into the Vaseline.  Then started rubbing it around the puckered opening, massaging the sensitive flesh, dipping the tip of his thumb slightly inside.  Sam felt pleasure following the path of Dean’s thumb, the nerves under that slick skin coming alive.  He closed his eyes.  Moaned.

Dean’s other hand was between Sam’s legs now, pressing strongly against the flesh under his balls, fingers rubbing up and down in an expert massage.  And then his thumb, still circling.  Sam was writhing helplessly, gripping the bars over his head.  He gasped, “Dean please…”  Opened his eyes. 

And saw Dean staring down at him, eyes blazing.  Dean abruptly leaned forward, fastened his mouth around one of Sam’s nipples, sucking it back, his tongue roughly circling the sensitive flesh.  Kept his hands between Sam’s legs, those strong fingers and thumbs working him.  Sam was arching his back, moving his hips, pressing himself up against his brother as hard as he could.  Gasped, “Oh _god,_ Dean, _please-“_   He began to shudder, felt the deep quivering in his body that was almost painful, that signal he was close to coming. 

Dean sat back.

Sam cried out in protest.  He let go of the bars and reached out, thoughtlessly.  _“Dean!”_  

Dean smacked his butt.  “I said _– hang on to the bars, Sammy!”_ He didn’t sound happy.

Sam gripped the bars again.  He was tearful now, breath hitching in his throat.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “C’mon-“

“What did I ask you to do?” Dean said coldly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered miserably. 

“Do I need to give you a spankin before we get down to business?” Dean said.

“No,” Sam whispered.  He stared at Dean helplessly.

Dean’s eyes softened.  Then Dean leaned forward, started kissing Sam again, tenderly now, over and over.  He put one hand on Sam’s cock, caressing it lightly.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  Kissed him.  “Baby.” 

Sam was trembling.  Dean’s mouth on him, so soft.   He felt his insides quivering, about to shatter under the touch of one more soft, seeking kiss.

He arched his back, pushing his cock into Dean’s hand.  Lifted his mouth up to Dean’s mouth, his lips on Dean’s mouth.  Felt Dean’s breath against his mouth.  Dean’s thumb was on Sam’s asshole again, rubbing, circling, pressing down, harder now.  Sam rolled his head, moaning. 

“You ready for me now?” Dean whispered to him. 

Rubbing him. 

Whispering, “You gonna open for me Sammy?”

Sam, writhing silently.

“You gonna open for me Sammy?” Dean whispered again.  “Open for my cock?” 

Sam dying here.  _“Dean,”_ he gasped, _“C’mon…”_

Dean was kneeling up between Sam’s legs.  One hand was on his cock, positioning it.  The other hand was on Sam’s asshole, thumb and forefinger spread, opening him wide.

Sam felt the painful stretch but welcomed it, leaned into it.  He looked up, met Dean’s eyes, those eyes with the long green miles behind them, that deep, dark forest gaze that Sam would lose himself in, knowingly, ecstatically, that sharp ecstatic knowledge of stepping off the path into the green darkness, waiting. 

Still holding Sam’s gaze, Dean started pushing the smooth, blunt tip of his cock into him.

It hurt. 

A lot.

But Sam didn’t care, because at this point, anything was better than that endless, excruciating balance on the edge of pleasure.  He stared up at Dean silently, welcoming that slow, painful intrusion into his body, Dean’s cock entering him, pushing past the protective ring of muscle, stretching it impossibly.  Dean was gasping now.  His eyes on Sam, agonized.

“Tight fit, huh?” Sam whispered to him.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  “Real tight.”

“Feel good?” Sam whispered.

“ _Yes,_ Sammy, _god-“_   Dean was speaking through his teeth.  He continued pushing slowly in.

Sam felt his brother’s cock filling him, hard, impossibly large, such a painful, stretching fullness, impossible to prepare for, it didn’t matter how many times Dean had fucked him with his fingers, or Sam had delved into himself under Dean’s hungry gaze, because those times couldn’t _begin_ to compare with this, what this felt like.  Sam was crying.

“Sammy,” Dean’s raw voice.  Dean’s raw gaze, the green eyes staring at him, upset.  “Please don’t cry.”

“I c’nt help it,” Sam said, through tears.  “You’re breakin me apart.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.  But he kept pushing in.  He bent his head, hiding his face.

“Don’t be,” Sam said.  He was crying freely now.  “It’s what I wanted,” he said thickly.

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean whispered.  It sounded like he was crying, too.  He’d pushed all the way in now, his cock like a red hot spear, stabbing deep into Sam’s body.  “Put your arms around me,” Dean said.

Sam let go of the bars above his head and wrapped his arms around his brother.  Wrapped his legs around him, holding Dean tightly.  Tears were running down over his face.  He tasted them in his mouth.

Dean was balanced above him, his own face hidden, the hard muscles on his arms straining.  His chest was heaving. 

Sam stroked his back, felt the hard, sleek muscles under his fingers.  Dean’s breath was shaking.  But he didn’t move, otherwise.

“Dean…” Sam whispered eventually, “what you waitin for?”

But then he realized that Dean was crying and trying to keep it quiet.  But Sam felt the silent warm tears, dropping onto his skin. 

Sam stroked Dean’s shoulders and back.  A fierce tenderness rose up inside of him _(Dean crying)._  Sam raised his mouth, kissed Dean’s bent head.  Felt his own tears, welling up.

“Fuck me Dean,” Sam whispered. 

Dean didn’t respond.

Sam was angry, suddenly.  He was still crying, still caressing Dean tenderly.  But he was angry now, too. 

At Dean, crying.

“Fuck me,” Sam whispered.  “Fuck me, Dean.  Do it.”

Dean didn’t move.

 _“Fuck me,”_ Sam hissed at him.  He craned his neck, put his mouth against Dean’s ear.  Put his tongue into Dean’s ear.  

Dean shuddered. 

“ _Fuck me_ Dean…like you _wanted-“_   Sam whispered harshly into Dean’s ear.  He felt his lips curling back from his teeth. 

Dean took a shaky breath. 

But then he started to move, rocking his hips against Sam, rocking into him.

It hurt like hell.

Sam clenched his teeth, wrapped his arms and legs tighter around his brother.  Pushed his cock against Dean’s belly.  Put his lips against Dean’s skin.  “That’s it…” he whispered.  “Just like that…like you wanted… _Dean…“_

Dean was thrusting into him, strongly now, every stab of his cock burning.  Sam was in agony.  But he felt a pleasure building, underneath that stabbing pain, starting to radiate under the burning rub of Dean’s cock.   He felt his tears drying up.  “That’s it Dean,” he whispered.  “Keep goin.”  He grasped Dean even more tightly, pressing himself up against his brother.  He was sweating, both of them were, and he smelled the sharp, light scent of Dean that he was so familiar with, surrounding him.  Sam’s cock was sliding between them, caught between the damp skin of Dean’s belly and his own as their bodies pressed together, and Sam registered the _(thank god)_ relief of that too, almost a distraction from what was going on in that other part of his body but not quite.

Dean’s cock stabbing him, filling him, nudging up deep inside him, pressing insistently on that spot in Sam’s ass that Dean would find with his fingers and work mercilessly until Sam was shuddering.  But now Dean was shuddering too, shuddering with his own pleasure, shaking with it, moaning now, helplessly against Sam’s skin, his mouth open against Sam’s skin, his face pressed against Sam, crying out Sam’s name _(“Sammy-“)_ his voice raw, rough with tears, his tears sliding against Sam’s skin.  _“Fuck me Dean,”_   Sam whispered again, through his teeth, whispering into Dean’s ear, conscious of Dean’s pleasure, savouring that intense, helpless pleasure of his brother.  His whole body was clamped around Dean now, intent, every nerve focused on Dean’s cock buried inside him, deep inside that burning centre of himself.  And then, _“Oh- “_ and Sam was shuddering, trembling, a wave of ecstasy breaking over him, breaking through the pain, that intense sensation rolling over him, and he was coming, aware of Dean coming, his brother shaking, coming into his ass, the tender walls of Sam’s ass convulsing around Dean’s cock, gripping Dean’s cock like a hand, his own cock spurting, releasing between their bodies, Sam gasping, “Oh _Dean,_ ohmigod _please-_ “

And then Dean finding Sam’s mouth, clamping his mouth over Sam’s mouth, his tongue in Sam’s mouth, smothering the rest of Sam’s words while he drove his cock a final time into Sam’s body, Sam’s mouth raised up to him helplessly, Sam moaning into Dean’s mouth.

Dean, lying on him heavily. 

He’d buried his face in Sam’s throat.  His ribs were heaving, like he’d just run a race. 

“Dean- “ Sam touched him tentatively.  Dean didn’t respond.  “Are you okay?” Sam asked him.

“…Yeah,” Dean answered, after a moment.  “I’m okay, Sammy.”  But he didn’t sound okay.

“Why were you crying?” Sam asked him.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  Then suddenly he was crying again, with harsh, almost soundless sobs.  Sam clasped him, tears returning to his own eyes _._

“I dunno, Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He was crying, snuffling without any embarrassment into Sam’s skin, his face wet.  Sam wrapped his arms and legs tightly around Dean’s body. 

He kissed the side of Dean’s head. 

Dean, settled down onto Sam, resting on him with his full weight.

Lying there, his breaths slowing. 

“Dean…” Sam said eventually.  “You’re squishin me.  Think maybe you could move?”

“…Okay,” Dean said, speaking against Sam’s throat.  “Sorry, Sammy.”

“S’okay,” Sam said.  He kissed Dean’s head again.

Dean didn’t move.

Sam waited a little longer, then pushed gently at Dean’s shoulders.  “Dean, c’mon,” he said.  “I’m gettin flattened, here.”

Dean raised himself up on his arms.  He had softened inside Sam but was still joined to him.  He started to pull out.  Sam immediately felt it.  It was like what had happened had welded them together, with a seal of fluids like glue, and Dean was breaking the seal.  _“Ow!”_   he exclaimed sharply.  _“Ow_ Dean, that fuckin _hurts!”_

 _“Sorry_ Sammy, Jesus.” Dean said through his teeth.  He wrenched himself the rest of the way out. 

 _“OW!”_   Sam yelped.

“Sorry,” Dean said again.  He sat back.  Then leaned forward and peered closely between Sam’s legs.  Put his fingers there.  Sam winced.  “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Dean said, absently.  He withdrew his fingers, looked at them.  “You’re bleedin,” he said.

“I’m not surprised,” Sam replied grouchily.  “Felt like you were tearin me in two.”

Dean looked distressed.  “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said again.

“Stop apologizin,” Sam said.  “Makes you sound like an idiot.”

Dean glared at him, offended.  But then he grinned.  “Well we can’t have _that,”_ he said.

Sam didn’t smile back.  “No,” he said.

Dean stopped smiling.  He looked at Sam quietly.  His eyes were still wet, Sam noticed. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Dean asked him.

“…Yeah,” Sam said.  “I think so.”  He shifted, carefully.  Started to sit up then lay back, wincing.  “Dunno if I’ll ever walk again, though.”

Dean stared at him with concern.  “Lemme wash you up,” he said.  He rose from the bed, padded naked to their small bathroom.  Sam watched him go, his eyes on Dean’s strong back, butt, legs.  A tendril of warmth curled through him, even after all that had happened. 

His magnificent big brother.

Dean was back, a damp washcloth in his hand.  He sat back down on the bed.  “Open up,” he said.

Sam spread his legs, wincing again.  Dean swabbed between them gently.  Dabbed around Sam’s asshole.  Sam made a sound of discomfort.  “God Dean –I’m really sore.”

“I’m s-“ Dean stopped.  “It’ll go better next time, Sammy,” he said.  “I promise.”  He was wiping Sam carefully, his cheeks flushed.  Sam looked away from him, up at the ceiling.  He lay quietly under the strokes of the washcloth.  Eventually closed his eyes.

Dean was finished.  “Do you wanna get dressed?”

Sam considered this.  Normally Dean didn’t give him that option.  “Sure,” he said.  “C’n you get me my sweats?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“Okay.”

He heard Dean get up, rustle about the room.  Then his hands were on Sam’s feet, pulling the soft fabric of Sam’s sweatpants over them.  Pulled them up over Sam’s legs.  “Lift up,” he said.  Sam lifted his butt, grimacing.  Dean finished pulling the sweatpants over his hips.  Then sat down again.  Sam felt his brother’s weight settle onto the mattress.  He opened his eyes.  Dean was dressed now too, in sweats and a tshirt, sitting quietly.  His eyes on Sam were grave.  “C’n I get you a shirt?”

“…Okay,” Sam said. 

Dean got up again, retrieved a tshirt and a hoodie from Sam’s duffle bag.  Came back over to the bed, sat down.  “Raise your arms, Sammy,” he said.  Sam raised his arms cooperatively, letting Dean pull the tshirt and then the hoodie over his head.  He settled the shirts over Sam’s body in a practiced fashion, smoothing them into place.  Sam thought about this.  Dean was used to dressing him, he realized.  It was something he’d done for Sam from when Sam was small.

Dean ran his hands down Sam’s sides.  Patted his hips.  “There you go.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

Dean didn’t reply.  He sat there, hands in his lap, looking quietly at Sam’s face.  

Sam looked back.  Then said, “Well…I guess we did it.”

Dean looked down.  “Guess so.”

Sam regarded his brother’s bent head.  Said, “Happy it’s over with?”

Dean smiled slightly.  “You’re talkin like it’s a one-shot deal,” he said.  Glanced at Sam.

Sam didn’t answer.  He wasn’t sure how he felt, hearing that.  I mean, he knew that now that they’d finally (done it) crossed that line…Dean would naturally expect to be doing it again.  And probably not too long from now, either.

But Sam was…he was really sore. 

And Dean, taking it for granted too.  Sam didn’t like that.

Sam started to answer then hesitated.  He didn’t want to get into an argument (not right _now,_ Jesus), and perhaps hurting Dean’s feelings.  _That_ never ended well.  But still…he wasn’t pleased.  He stared at Dean, silently.

Dean gazed back, his smile fading. 

But then he said,

“Sammy – I love you.  You know that, don’t you?”

Sam didn’t answer (couldn’t).  Tears were welling in his eyes, again. 

Dean, looking at him.

_(I love you)_

That look in Dean’s eyes.  Sam couldn’t bear it, suddenly, that expression in Dean’s eyes.  He looked away.  Dean put a hand on his leg.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  “Look at me.”

Sam didn’t look at him.

“Sammy,” Dean said, again.  “I love you.”  His voice was raw, now. 

“Say somethin,” he whispered. 

Sam closed his eyes.  “I know,” he said quietly. 

Dean’s hand on his leg.  “Sammy…” he said.  Then stopped, didn’t say anything more. 

The silence stretched out.  Sam lay still on the bed, his eyes closed. 

“…Do you love me back?”  Dean asked him.

“You know I do,” Sam whispered.  “I always have.”  He kept his eyes closed.

Dean was silent.  Sam lay there.  His body felt heavy, smothered almost, like it was wrapped in bandages.  He was conscious of Dean sitting beside him, the silent weight of his brother’s body, on the bed.

Then suddenly Dean was kissing him.  He kissed Sam’s lips.  Kissed his forehead.  Kissed the tip of Sam’s nose, his cheeks.  The kisses were very gentle.  Dean kissed Sam’s throat, ran his mouth down over Sam’s throat.  Pressed a kiss in the hollow at the base of Sam’s throat.  And then again.  _“Dean,”_ Sam whispered.  He was trembling now, under those gentle, persistent kisses.  He put his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

Dean kissed Sam’s chest then turned and rubbed his cheek there.  Laid his cheek against Sam’s chest.  “I c’n hear your heart,” Dean said softly.  His head was heavy against Sam’s chest.  Sam said nothing, aware of nothing now but the weight of Dean’s head, on his chest.  He stroked Dean’s hair. 

Suddenly Dean gripped him, fingers digging into Sam sharply.  He pressed his face tight against Sam’s chest.  Sam froze, frightened.  “Dean!”

“The sound of your heart,” Dean said painfully.  “The _sound_ of it Sammy, your heart, beatin…” He was crying again, his breath shuddering harshly.  Sam put his arms around him, dismayed.

“That sound,” Dean whispered.  “It means everythin to me…” 

Crying.

“Dean,” Sam said.  _“Shhh._   _C’mon._   You’re scarin me.”

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean whispered.  Sobs were wracking through him.  Sam stroked his back.  “I’m right _here,_ Dean” he said.  “I’m not goin anywhere.”  He kissed the top of Dean’s head.

Dean, crying.

Sam held him, wordless.

“I feel so sad,” Dean whispered eventually.  “And I don’t know why.”  His voice was bleak.  It hurt Sam to hear it.

Sam held him, the weight of Dean’s head, against his chest.  Sam felt the beat of his own heart, thumping against the weight of Dean’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said softly. 

Dean, silent.

“I wish you weren’t sad,” Sam said to him.

Dean lay on him, silent. 

Then he rubbed his cheek against Sam’s chest.  “It’s okay,” he said.  His voice was back to normal now.  He sighed.  “Dunno what got into me.”

“Well…” Sam said thoughtfully.  “I didn’t think fuckin me was _that_ bad.”  Dean started laughing.

“I mean…thanks a _lot,”_ Sam added.  He was smiling, relieved to hear Dean laugh.

“ _Shud-_ dup,” Dean said.  “Fuckin you was…completely awesome, and you know it.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  “So where’s the appreciation then?  All I’m gettin from you is _bawlin._   Sends a mixed message.”

Dean sat up.  He looked down at Sam.  Then he started tickling Sam’s ribs.  “ _Appreciation_ …I’ll give you _appreciation_ you little brat.  All the appreciation you c’n handle.”

Sam was wriggling, shrieking.  “Dean!  Fuck!  Stop it!”  He bounced under Dean’s fingers, soreness shooting through his ass.  “Ow!  Dean, _stop it!”_   He was laughing, helplessly.

Dean was grinning.  Then suddenly he was on top of Sam again, hugging him.  He rolled over onto his back, taking Sam with him, Sam sprawling over him.  “Ouch!” Sam said.  “Dean!”

“Sorry.”  Dean’s arms were wrapped tightly around him.  He smothered Sam against his chest.  Kissed him.

“Dean…” Sam said, “…I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry.”  One of Dean’s hands was on Sam’s ass now, cupping him.  Patting.  “Such a tight little ass,” Dean said.  There was a lazy satisfaction in his voice.  “’N’ all mine.”

Sam had settled onto Dean’s chest.  “Mmmph,” he said.

Dean stroked his head, digging his fingers exquisitely into Sam’s scalp.  Sam sighed.

Dean, stroking him.

“You all mine, Sammy?” Dean asked him.

“All yours,” Sam said.  He lay relaxed in Dean’s arms, enjoying the feel of them wrapped around him, those hard muscles.  Sam was getting sleepy.

“All mine,” Dean repeated softly.  He stroked Sam’s hair.  Sam started to doze.

And woke up, some time later.  The bedside lamp was still on.  He was still wrapped in Dean’s arms, the two of them lying together on top of the covers.  Sam shifted around, tentatively.  He’d gotten stiff.  He sensed that Dean was awake.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You awake?”

“No,” Dean said.  “I’m sleepin.  That’s why I’m talkin to you.”

“Shuddup,” Sam said.  But he was smiling.  “You wanna get under the covers?”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “I’m actually not sleepy, Sammy.  I was thinkin we’d go out, if you’re up to it.”

Sam considered.  He moved himself experimentally, testing the soreness in his butt.  “I guess we could,” he said.  “Where you wanna go?”

“Just out,” Dean said.  “Go to the park, maybe, look at the stars til it gets light.  ‘N’ then we could go to McDonald’s for breakfast.  Get a Sausage ‘n’ Egg McMuffin (both of them loved Sausage ‘n’ Egg McMuffins). 

“Okay,” Sam said.  “I just need to use the bathroom, first.”

“Sure.”

Sam got up, gingerly.  Walked slowly to the bathroom, conscious of Dean’s eyes on him.  “Don’t lock the door,” Dean called after him. 

“I _won’t,_ Dean, god,” Sam said, rolling his eyes (Dean hated it and always complained, if Sam locked the bathroom door). 

He closed the door firmly.

Privacy.

Sam pulled down his sweatpants.  Then he sat down on the toilet. 

He considered the situation.  His ass felt wet and raw, fluids still dribbling out of it.  It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation in the world.  Sam sighed.  He tore off a wad of toilet paper and pressed it against himself.  Looked at it.  Spots of blood.  Sam sighed again.  So much for safe sex.  Well, at least he and Dean had both been virgins.  And it’s wasn’t like Dean would be getting him pregnant.  Sam snorted with laughter, then stopped.  He wondered idly whether he should be feeling more…freaked out? _violated,_ maybe?

By what had just happened. 

But he didn’t, though.  It was sort of strange, how calm he felt right now, this feeling of calm practicality that had descended over him, covering him like a blanket.

Sam wiped himself again, then stood up to take a piss.  “Sammy?” Dean’s voice.  “You okay in there?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam answered, dutifully.  He rolled his eyes again.  His big brother, god.  Fucking control freak.  Sam finished up and washed his hands.  Exited the bathroom. 

Dean was standing by the door, his jacket already on.  He’d changed back into jeans, Sam noticed.  He had Sam’s jacket in one hand and Sam’s knife in the other.  Held them both out.  “Here.  Don’t worry about bringin your gun.  I’ve got mine.”

“Okay.”  Sam took the items, shrugging on his jacket and slipping the knife into one of its pockets.  Bent to put on his socks and shoes.  “Thanks.”  Dean nodded.  Then opened the door for him.  They left, walking side by side into the darkness of the early morning.

Dean took his hand.

Later, sitting at a secluded table in a mostly empty McDonald’s, the two of them munching on Sausage ‘n’ Egg McMuffins, the sun rising outside the plate glass window.

Dean gazing at Sam from across the table.  Sam looked back at him, chewing.  He swallowed.  “What?”

Dean smiled, his eyes soft.  Then he pulled off the silver ring that he always wore on the ring finger of his right hand.  Reached out for Sam’s left hand.  “C’mere.”

Sam let Dean take his hand.  “What you doin?” he asked.

Dean slipped the silver ring onto the ring finger of Sam’s left hand.  “Here,” he said.  He looked very pleased with himself.

Sam stared at the ring.  It was slightly too large for him.  “What you doin, Dean?” he asked.  “Dad gave that to you.”  (Their dad had given Dean that ring on his fifteenth birthday.  Told Dean the ring was their grandfather’s.  Dean never took it off).

Dean shrugged.  “I know,” he said.  “I’m givin it to you now.”

Sam stared at it.  Dean’s silver ring…on Sam’s _left_ hand.  “Seriously?” Sam said.  He laughed shakily.  “Is this what it _looks_ like?” he asked, making it sound like a joke.

Dean didn’t reply.  Sam looked up.  Then stared at his brother, shocked.

Dean was gazing at him silently, his eyes streaming with tears.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He didn’t say anything else.

Sam looked at him.  He opened his mouth.  Closed it.

Dean wiped his wet face.  Then he put his hand on top of Sam’s hand.  Clasped it, tightly.  “That’s yours now,” he said fiercely.  “Never take it off.  You hear me, Sammy?”

Sam found his voice.  “But what about _Dad?”_ he said.  “Won’t he notice?”

“Probably,” Dean said.  He didn’t sound concerned. 

“You’re not worried about that?” Sam asked him.

“Nope,” Dean said.  He didn’t look worried, either.

“Why not?” Sam asked him.  “What’ll we say if Dad asks why I’m wearin _your_ ring?”  He wrenched his hand out of Dean’s grasp and laid it out on the table, the ring glinting.  “Like _this?”_

Dean shrugged.  “ _You_ don’t have to say anythin,” he said.  _“_ If he asks…I’ll tell him you wanted it.  Wanted to wear granddad’s ring.”  He grinned at Sam, suddenly.  “I’ll tell him it’s just you…bein girly.”

 _“What?”_ Sam said. 

Dean shrugged again.  “Never mind,” he said.  “Dad’s not gonna say anything…to _you_ at least _,_ so don’t worry.  And I c’n handle him.  You just worry about not losin that.  Okay?”  He looked serious now.  “Don’t ever take it off.”

Sam, looked down at his left hand.  The thick silver band around his finger.  It made his hand look different, somehow.  A stranger’s hand.  “Okay,” he said softly.

Dean took Sam’s hand again.  He ran his thumb over the ring, stroking it.  “It looks good on you Sammy,” he said.  “You wear that…you’ll never forget you’re mine.”

“…I never forget that anyway,” Sam said.  He heard his own voice, speaking the words quietly against the background noise of the restaurant. 

Dean, gently holding his hand.

“That makes me real happy,” Dean said.  And he did look happy now.

Sam stared at him, his heart hurting.

“I’m glad, Dean,” he said, eventually. 

Dean, looking at him expectantly.

“I’m happy too,” Sam said. 

And he _was,_ suddenly.  He _was_ happy.  He looked at Dean’s beautiful face, lit by the rising sun shining through the window.  That hard, delicate, beautiful face that Sam would see against his closed eyelids, outlined now with a halo of blazing gold. 

Dean.  His brother.  That feeling in Sam’s chest.  Happiness.

“We’re always gonna be together, Sammy,” Dean said.  He was smiling at Sam tenderly, his green eyes lit bright by the sun, green as new leaves.  “You ‘n’ me, against the world.  Forever.”

“You ‘n’ me,” Sam repeated.  His heart was clenched in his chest.  He stared at his big brother, those bright eyes, shining with forgotten tears, that beautiful face, gazing at Sam, so open.  So defenseless, that open tender smile, that love, shining there.

“Forever,” Sam said.  He closed his eyes.  Closed his hand into a fist, closing it tightly around Dean’s hand, mashing Dean’s fingers together.  Felt the silver ring, digging in. 

“Ouch!” Dean said, startled.  “Jeez, Sammy.”  But he left his hand where it was.

“Sorry,” Sam said.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  He loosened his grip, with some effort.

“I know,” Dean answered. 

His voice, so gentle.  Sam listened, tears rising again. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said.


	30. Chapter 30

Being loved.

Like a wife.

This was _not_ a life experience Sam had ever expected to have (I mean, he was _fourteen,_ okay?  And also…a guy).

 _Girls_ must expect to experience something like this…some day (not that Sam knew any girls, but he’d read girl _stories_ … fairy tales and such – actually reading those as an assignment from Bobby, because Bobby said most of those creatures in fairy tales were _real,_ and the things that happened to the people in fairy tales were stylized descriptions of what _actually_ happened when spirits and witchcraft and spells were involved…a comforting thought…thanks Uncle Bobby).  But the endings of most of those stories…all about finding Prince Charming and falling in love and living happily ever after in some gleaming white castle…how did girls buy into that, anyway? 

But it seemed like finding that kind of love…that was something girls were prepped for right from the start…right from those bedtime stories read to them by their own parents.  Sam hadn’t been prepared.  Not for _this_ (I mean, Dean had read him bedtime stories too, but they had centred around comic books – Spiderman, mostly). 

And that kind of love…it looked like…that’s what Dean wanted.  That happily-ever-after.  For Sam to just…be with Dean now…happy, smiling, good with everything.  Agreeable _(obedient)_.  The two of them never arguing, never pissed off with each other, just fighting the good fight together, the two of them against the world.

Dean and Sam in that gleaming white castle (of course in Dean’s world, this was a gleaming black Impala).  Together forever. 

Sam his wife…

Dean grabbing hold of that idea and running with it…that idea that _Sam_ had put into his head, taunting Dean with it thoughtlessly…because Sam was annoyed with him and had decided to be clever and yank Dean’s chain a bit…Sam still couldn’t decide whether those words were inspired or if they’d been the dumbest thing he’d said in his life.

And now Sam wearing his brother’s silver ring like a wedding ring (and their dad _had_ noticed and frowned, but hadn’t said anything…that Sam knew about, anyway, Dean had been right about that).

And Dean looking at Sam wearing his ring, with such a proud, possessive look in his eyes that Sam’s chest would hurt, seeing that look…because it was _tender_ too, so filled with such proud, tender, possessive love that Sam would ache for him, seeing that look in Dean’s eyes. 

It was…difficult, being looked at like that.  Not _bad_ … 

But difficult.  Or _demanding,_ rather…that might be a better word for it. 

A responsibility.

Happily-ever-after…none of those stories had actually _described_ it.  What it was like.

Being loved like a wife. 

It was demanding, being loved like that.  A responsibility Sam hadn’t expected.

Sam, sitting on the bed, his back resting against the headboard.  Dean, sprawled on his back, his head nestled between Sam’s legs, propped up on Sam’s crotch.  The two of them watching TV (the X-Files – they both loved that show – a Sunday night tradition – nothing made a shabby motel room feel like home quite like the X-Files on TV on a Sunday night), Dean with a bag of popcorn balanced on his stomach, Sam feeding them both, popping kernels into his mouth and then Dean’s, enjoying the feel of Dean’s lips moving against his fingers (sort of like feeding a big, blonde, lazy dog).

Dean, idly watching the screen.  He started rubbing his head back and forth against Sam’s crotch. 

Sam was getting irritated (I mean, this episode was just getting _awesome_ …the conspiracy episodes were his favorite…the monster-of-the-week ones a bit too much like hunts…and although Dean _loved_ those episodes, he always drove Sam crazy by pointing out all the ways they deviated from reality…Sam preferred the alien story lines – pure escapist fantasy).

So Dean, rubbing his head against Sam’s crotch, Sam increasingly distracted.  “…Dean…cut it out.  I’m tryin to watch, here.”

“Sorry.”  Dean, rubbing.

“…Dean!”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been waitin for this all week!  Don’t spoil it!”

“Sorry Sammy.”  Dean holding himself still now, his head balanced delicately on the hardened mound of Sam’s cock.

Which wasn’t helping, at this point.

“Thanks a lot,” Sam said grumpily.  He saw Dean grin, his eyes on the TV.  Sam grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoved it into Dean’s mouth.

“Hey!”  Dean’s voice was muffled around the popcorn.  He turned around, chewing, glaring at Sam.  Sam grinned back at him.  “Sorry,” he said.

Dean swallowed the wad of popcorn.  Then he suddenly turned and buried his face in Sam’s crotch, growling.  Bit Sam through the hard cloth of his jeans.

Sam was shrieking.  “Dean!  Stop it!”  He smacked the side of Dean’s head.  “Wait till the _commercial,_ Jesus!”

Dean went still, his face buried in Sam’s crotch.  But he kept his mouth open.  Sam felt Dean’s breath, hot and moist against the fabric covering his cock.  He did his best to ignore it, staring grimly at the TV. 

Dean.  Such a pain.

Dean turned around, snuggling his cheek luxuriously into Sam’s crotch.  Put a hand on one of Sam’s thighs, spreading his fingers out possessively.  Started watching the show again, his head resting heavily against Sam.

The commercial was on.  Dean immediately came to life, burrowing his face against Sam’s cock, growling and nipping at him.  Sam was shrieking, giggling helplessly.  He yanked on Dean’s hair.

“Dean!  Get off me!”

“Not until I get a taste.”

 _“ -_ No!”

“C’mon, Sammy, just a little teeny tiny taste.”  Dean’s fingers were on the waistband of Sam’s jeans, undoing the button.

“Dean!”

“C’mon Sammy.  Play nice.”  Dean was busily undoing him, unzipping him.  He achieved access to Sam’s jockey shorts, Sam’s cock straining now against the soft fabric.  Dean put his mouth over the cloth covered mound.  Started nibbling and pulling on it, working it with his mouth.

“Dean…god…”  Sam was breathing raggedly, his hands in Dean’s hair.  The show came back on.

Dean turned around, nestling his head against Sam’s cock.  He started watching the show again.

Sam wasn’t having any of that.  He yanked hard on Dean’s hair.

“Ow!”

 “Finish up!” Sam snapped.

“Next commercial.”

_“No!  Now!”_

Dean sighed theatrically.  Then said, “Well…if you insist.”  Returned to nibbling Sam’s cock through his shorts.

Sam was thrusting up against Dean’s mouth (and so _pissed_ at Dean, for teasing him like that, Jesus).  “Dean…” he gasped finally, “suck on it, c’mon.”

Dean stopped his activities, peered up.  “What do _I_ get for that?”

“Anythin you want,” Sam said through his teeth.

“I want to fuck you,” Dean said mildly.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Okay…fine.  But after the show, okay?”

“Okay.”  Dean’s hands were on the fly of Sam’s jockey shorts.  He pulled Sam’s cock through the opening in the fabric.

“Balls too,” Sam said.

“God you’re demandin,” Dean muttered.  But he was smiling.  Then his hands were on Sam’s balls, carefully drawing them through the fly, Sam feeling his sensitive flesh surrounded by a tight circle of cloth, pinching.  He looked at Dean’s bent head, bent intently over Sam’s parts, laid out against Sam’s underwear like a feast. 

He yanked on Dean’s hair again. 

“Stop it, Sammy, Jesus,” Dean said.  “I’m gettin there.”  Then his hot mouth on Sam’s cock, drawing it deep into his mouth, his fingers and thumb grasping the base of Sam’s balls, holding them tightly, pulling them slightly forward.

Sam was mewling, bucking into Dean’s mouth, the feeling of his brother’s hot, tight mouth, sucking on him so hard, the hard fingers pulling on him, overwhelming.

But then his eyes went back to the TV.

Mulder was in a dilemma, facing off against Cancer Man.  What Cancer Man was saying - Sam could see it provided a critical clue to the story line that had been unfolding all season.  He kept an eye on the TV even as pleasure rolled through him, crackling through his cock like lightning.  Eventually he came into Dean’s mouth, crying out, right before the credits rolled.

What a great way to watch the X-Files.  They should do this every Sunday.

Dean turned the TV off.

Then he was yanking Sam’s jeans and underwear unceremoniously down his legs.  “Get that butt in the air, Sammy.  My turn.”

Sam turned onto his hands and knees cooperatively, thrusting his ass into the air.  “That’s it,” Dean muttered.  His thumb was on the rim of Sam’s asshole, rubbing it.  Then he opened a drawer in the nightstand beside their bed, retrieved the plastic bottle of lube, squirting it generously into the warm crease between Sam’s butt cheeks.  Sam jumped.  “Dean, that’s cold!”

“Stop complainin.”  Dean’s fingers on Sam’s asshole, rubbing the lube into him, expertly.  And then bending down, kissing Sam’s asshole, placing his tongue delicately against the grooved, lubricated flesh (strawberry flavour –Sam personally found the taste rather horrible but Dean seemed to love it).  Dean roughly yanking down his own jeans and shorts.  And then his cock, pushing into Sam’s ass, wasting no time, Dean’s hands on Sam’s hips, holding him in place.  Dean’s cock, pushing in.

Lighting Sam up.  _“Oh- “_   Sam writhing, bucking his ass back against Dean’s cock, Dean riding him now, thrusting into him, fucking him like a champion, his cock pounding into him, rubbing hard against the slick internal flesh, Sam quivering now with pleasure in spite of the stretching pain.  Both of them panting, Sam moaning now, helplessly, and Dean fucking him so hard, his hands hard on Sam’s body, Dean gasping now, gasping Sam’s name under his breath, moaning Sam’s name into his ear, a hand coming around to grasp Sam’s cock, hard again, and then both of them coming, aware of nothing but that, their attention narrowed down to just that, their vast, mutual pleasure, like a wave, crashing over both of them.

And then later, cleaned up and dressed again, Dean in a pair of cotton undershorts and a tshirt and Sam in a pair of flannel pajamas (Dean liked to put clothes on him now, after sex, dressing Sam carefully, tenderly…and he seemed to like Sam in pajamas –he’d bought him some brand new ones from Walmart, no hand-me-downs, anymore).

Sam, curled into a flannel clad ball, his head under Dean’s chin.   Dean’s hands, stroking his back.  Dean asking quietly, “What you thinkin Sammy?”

“…Nothin,” Sam replied.  He was sleepy now, starting to doze.

Dean’s hands, stroking him.  “C’mon.  You must be thinkin somethin.”

“Thinkin bout you,” Sam murmured (that was always a good answer).

“Oh yeah?” Dean sounded pleased.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled.  Dean, so warm, holding him. 

“…What about me?” Dean asked him.

Sam, dozing.

Dean. 

“Well?” Dean asked.  His hands had stopped stroking.  He was waiting.

Sam dragged himself up from sleep.  Sighed.  (… _Dean_ …he didn’t sound needy at _all)._ “How great you are, okay?” he mumbled.  Then, “Lemme sleep now.”

“How’m I great?” Dean asked, ignoring this.

Sam was irritated.  “You’re just…great, Dean.  The best.  Okay?”  He let himself relax back into a doze, his face resting against Dean’s chest (so cozy).   “Lemme sleep now,” he murmured into Dean’s chest.

“Don’t gimme that,” Dean said shortly. 

Sam opened his eyes.  “What?” (he was wide awake now, thanks Dean).

“Don’t gimme that, Sammy,” Dean said again.  “Puttin me off, like that.  It’s not enough.”

Sam raised his head, looked up at his brother.  “Jesus, Dean, what do you _want?”_   he asked.  “What kinda picture do I need to _paint,_ here?”

Dean was gazing at him.  “I don’t want a picture,” he said.  “I want an honest answer.”

Sam was silent.  Then said, “Why do you want that so bad?”

“Cause I do,” Dean said.  Then added quietly.  “It’s important.”

Sam sighed again, trying not to sound exasperated (his brother was sensitive).  Then he turned onto his other side, spooning into Dean, nestling his butt into Dean’s crotch.  Dean automatically curved around him, one arm going around Sam’s waist.  He put his nose against the nape of Sam’s neck.  Sam closed his eyes at the sensation of this.  He sighed again.  “Okay.  Fine. _God,_ Dean.”  He was silent.

Dean’s lips, against the back of Sam’s neck. “Tell me.”

“I _am.”_   Sam considered his words. 

Honest.  Well…giving Dean an honest answer was tricky.  Because to _be_ honest…an honest answer…a _completely_ honest one…would open up a whole can of worms.  Dean _was_ great, no question.  But he was also…not.  But _Dean_ didn’t want to hear that.  And that wasn’t a conversation Sam wanted to have with his brother, right now.  He wanted to snuggle with Dean and go to sleep.  School tomorrow.

“I think you’re great…because…you look out for me,” Sam said.  “ _And_ you look out for Dad.  We c’n always count on you – you hold us together, okay?  I mean…where would we be, without you?  Dad drunk in an alley somewhere, and me in foster care, most likely.  So yeah, I think you’re great.”  Sam closed his eyes again.  Dean’s body, curved warmly around him.  Sam could definitely go to sleep like this.  This was nice.

“…You think I’m great because of _that?”_   Dean asked.

Sam opened his eyes again.  Dean hadn’t sounded pleased. 

“Yeah,” he said.  “What’s wrong with that?”  (I mean, Dean wanted an _honest_ answer, right?  Well, that’s what Sam could come up with at short notice, so…there).

“…Nothin, I guess,” Dean said eventually.

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  He turned himself back around and put an arm around Dean too, both of them holding each other now.  Put his nose against Dean, that smell of Dean he liked so much.  Asked, “C’n I go to sleep now?”

“Sure Sammy,” Dean said.  He was stroking Sam again.  Sam smiled against Dean’s chest.  Dean, taking care of him.  It _was_ great…mostly. 

“I’m spankin you tomorrow mornin,” Dean murmured.  His strong hands, stroking.

Sam felt a cold jolt run through him.  He opened his eyes.  “Why?” he asked.  “What’d I do?”

Dean kissed his forehead.  “Nothin,” he said.  “Just a reminder, like you need sometimes.  Keep you focused.”

“Focused on _what?”_ Sam asked.  He was upset, now.

“On your side of things,” Dean said softly.  “You c’n count on me…I’m _great_ that way, I know.  But I need to know I c’n count on you _too,_ Sammy.”

“But you _can,_ Dean, you know that!” Sam said. 

“I know it best when you’re showin me,” Dean said.  “Need that picture painted for me after all, I guess.”

“How’s… _that_ showin you anything!”  Sam snapped.  He started to sit up.

Dean held him down, casually.  “Relax, Sammy,” he said.  The hands again, stroking.  “It’s a reminder spankin, that’s all.  I’m not gonna go too hard on you.”

“But-“

“Unless you argue, that is,” Dean said.  “Then it’s a different story.”

Sam made himself relax, with some effort.  “What am I showin you that’s so important?” he asked.

“Who you belong to,” Dean said, like it was obvious.  Then he bent his head, whispering into Sam’s ear.  “Who you’re with.”

Sam was quiet, trying to understand this. 

To understand Dean, needing to see that from him. 

“What do you see, then?” Sam asked him.  He'd turned his face back against Dean’s chest. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“What do you see…when I’m showin you that?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean bent his head again.  Whispered, very softly, into Sam’s ear.  “I see…my good little wife.” 

Sam felt the brush of Dean’s lips against his ear.  His chest felt tight, suddenly.

Dean, needing that.  Sam showing him that.

“Is that all you see?” Sam asked him.

Dean kissed him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That’s all I need to see.  Isn’t it?”

Sam thought about this.  Thought about himself, held up to Dean’s gaze, like a mirror _._

_(My good little wife)_

He lay against Dean’s chest, his eyes closed. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispered.  “You understand what I’m sayin, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back. 

And he did.  He did understand. 

Understood why his showing that to Dean… _being_ that to him...was so important.  He understood Dean, alright.

Dean counted on him, for that.  That silent understanding that only Sam could give him.

Being loved like a wife. 

It was a responsibility, for sure.  And not easy.  It was pretty damn hard, actually. 

But Sam would do his best, okay? 

For Dean.  Because Dean wanted it so bad, what only Sam could give him.  That happily-ever-after.

Sam lay quietly in Dean’s arms. 

Eventually he slept.

The spanking the next morning wasn’t so hard.  Dean had been right about that.  He spanked Sam after breakfast, once Sam had cleared the table and washed up.  Took Sam over his knees, pulled down his pants and shorts, and spanked him briskly with his bare hand, keeping it up until Sam was wriggling for real (Dean always knew when Sam wriggled on purpose, trying to get Dean to stop), but then stopping right after that.  “Okay baby, we’re done.”

Sam got up off of Dean’s knees, stood between his brother’s legs, blinking back tears (I mean…it hadn’t been so bad, as spankings go, but it still _stung)_.  Dean put his hands on Sam’s bare hips.

“How was that?” Dean asked him.

“It was…okay,” Sam said.

“What you gonna be thinkin about today?” Dean asked.

“You,” Sam said.

Dean nodded.  “That’s good,” he said.  “You c’n pull them up now.”  Sam carefully pulled up his pants and shorts.

Dean was standing, putting on his jacket, his eyes scanning the room before they left, like always.  “Sammy,” he said.  Gestured.  “Your brush.”

Sam went over and picked up the hairbrush from the bedside table.  Put it in his knapsack.   Looked at Dean.  Dean smiled.  “That’s my baby,” he said.  Went over and kissed Sam lightly on the lips.  Then kissed him again.  “Gimme a big one, before we go outside,” he said.

Sam wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, kissed him thoroughly.  Dean hugged him, kissed him back, the two of them clinging together now.  Eventually Dean broke the kiss.  He leaned his forehead against Sam’s forehead, breathing hard.  “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” Sam whispered.  His chest was aching.  Dean’s voice, so tender.

Dean kissed him on the forehead.  “Be good today,” he said.

“I will,” Sam said.

“Baby,” Dean was smiling.

And then they were out the door, walking to school, the big brother and little brother, walking in step with each other, casually talking.

Being (just) brothers. 

It had become something they had to work at, especially out in public.

And to be honest…Dean sucked at it.  Sam couldn’t understand why no one ( _including_ their dad…) hadn’t figured out what was going on, by now.  It’s not like Dean was making such an effort to hide his feelings.

Staring at Sam, all google-eyed.  Dean did that a lot, gazing at Sam in the school hallways, in the school cafeteria at lunch, gazing at Sam like he was the most precious thing on earth…ignoring everyone and everything else around them…I mean, it was great, but still…really, Dean.  Sam always got jumpy if those looks went on too long, worried that Dean would forget himself still further and lean in for a kiss… _that_ would be all they needed, Jesus.  He’d glower at Dean warningly (and of course, Dean thought Sam frowning at him like that was cute).

But then glaring at Sam.  Dean did that a lot, too.  And that was another thing that had to be managed.

Sam was getting attention now…the same kind of attention that _Dean_ got, from other people, not as _much_ as Dean, sure (I mean, who did?) but enough. 

He was nearly fifteen.  And changing.

He was taller and bigger, up two shoe sizes already since last fall (and Dean had bought him new sneakers _twice_ , grumbling, but smiling…Dean liked buying Sam things…it made him proud, Sam saw).  He still wasn’t as tall as Dean (had a ways to go yet), but it looked like he would get there now (and neither Dean or him had ever really considered that, they were used to Sam being a shrimp, even though their dad had always said Sam would grow). 

And Sam liked his body. 

He’d filled out some, not as much as _Dean,_ sure, but he’d put on some muscle.  The hard training that Dean and their dad expected of him, that hard daily training…that showed now, in the muscles on Sam’s arms and torso, in the muscles of his shoulders, broadening now (although still more slender than Dean’s), in the rippled muscles of his abdomen.  And in the muscles of his thighs and calves, iron hard and taut (and his butt too, Dean loved the feel of Sam’s butt, he was constantly patting it, when they were alone).  And Sam was stronger, he could feel it.  Strong, lithe and fit. 

His capable, lethally trained body.  He was enjoying it, no lie.  A benefit of the hunter’s life, for sure.

And other people were noticing, too.  Girls looked at him now, Sam saw their eyes, lingering on him, where before those gazes would just slide past him on their way to his brother.  And he’d noticed the occasional _guy_ looking at him that way too…kids in school and also…older guys, like the ones who looked at Dean (not that Sam would ever tell _Dean_ he’d noticed them looking - he didn’t want anyone killed).

And Sam was kind of enjoying the attention.  I mean, it was new, and it had never been _his_ before (always his brother’s), and he wasn’t getting stared at in the same, overwhelming way Dean got stared at (which _could_ be hard to deal with, Sam understood that).  And also, he wasn’t shy about himself, like Dean had been, for so long.  Admiring stares didn’t embarrass him.

It upset Dean though.

“Stop showin off Sammy,” Dean hissed.  He was glaring at Sam from across the cafeteria table.

“Why, what am I doin?” Sam asked him.  They were eating lunch together in the school cafeteria, Dean working through a burger and fries and Sam chewing on a roast beef sandwich.  A couple of girls in Sam’s class walked by.  They smiled at Sam (who smiled back), and looked like they were about to sit down beside him, but moved on (quickly), after Dean shot them one of his patented ice glares of death.

“Smilin and winkin at everybody like they’re in your fan club,” Dean grumbled.

 _“Winking?”_ Sam said.  “When did I do that?”

Dean, glaring at him.  “Well…it looked like you were _thinkin_ about winkin,” he said shortly.

Sam snorted.  “You’re just readin into things, like usual,” he said.  “And there’s nothing wrong with smiling at people, anyway.”

“There is if they’re thinkin about jumpin your bones,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Sam said.  “Those girls are in grade nine.  I don’t think they’re quite there, yet.  And anyway…so what?”

“So _what?”_ Dean said.  “What do you mean, so what?”

“So who cares?” Sam said.  “If somebody’s thinkin that…it’s not _my_ problem.”

“It is if you encourage it,” Dean said. 

“But I’m _not,_ Dean, Jesus.” Sam said.  He was getting mad.  “Smiling back at someone is a whole lot different from…that.  Can’t I be friendly to the kids in my own class?”

“No,” Dean said.

 _“Pardon?”_ Sam said.

“I said, no,” Dean said.  His voice was hard.

Sam took a deep breath.  He wasn’t going to lose his temper.  “Why not?” he asked carefully.  “You never used to care that much if I hung out with other kids as long as I’d drop ‘em whenever _you_ showed up.  And it’s not like I’ve ever hung with anyone outside of school anyway.  So what’s the problem?”

“I did mind,” Dean said.  “I just never said anything.  And you have so hung out with other kids outside of school.  Remember that girl when you went over to her house?”

“God, Dean, that was _years_ ago,” Sam said.  “I was in grade _six._   And you gave me permission… remember?”

“All _I_ remember,” Dean said, “is that I came to pick you up...it was real late too…and you didn’t want to leave ‘n’ you gave me a real hard time about it.”

“Cause I got invited for a _sleepover,”_ Sam said.  “Her family was gonna have this big pancake breakfast the next morning with all their cousins and…they invited me to stay for it.”

“Well what _I_ remember is that I’d walked three miles in the cold from the motel,” Dean said.  “’N’ I’d already waited till late to give you as much time as possible and I was tired and _then_ you expected me to walk all the way back…by myself.”

They were both glaring at each other now.

“Well I didn’t, did I?” Sam snapped.  “I came back with you.  And I’ve never been over at someone’s house since.  So what’s your fucking problem?”

Dean’s eyes were cold.  “…Are you askin for it?” he said dangerously.

Sam stared back at him.  “I never ask for it,” he replied bitterly.  His eyes on Dean were just as cold and he saw Dean registering that.  “You just think I do,” he said.  “Just like you think I… _wink_ at people when I’m just _acknowledgin_ them…like a normal human being.”

Dean glared.  But then he dropped his gaze.  “I don’t want to fight,” he said quietly.

“Neither do I,” Sam said.  He watched his brother’s lowered face.  Dean looked upset.  Sam felt sad for him, suddenly.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Sam said, gently now.  “I didn’t mean to, Dean okay?”

Dean didn’t look up.  “Okay,” he said.

Sam started to reach for Dean’s hand, then stopped himself.  “I won’t smile at anyone if it bothers you, okay?” he said.  “I’ll just ignore ‘em.”

“Nah,” Dean said.  He sighed.  “You were right, Sammy.  I was outa line.  You can’t help it if people look at you, I get it.  I’m not askin you to be rude.”

“So I c’n…smile at girls?” Sam asked.  “Without you goin nuclear?”  He made it sound like a joke. 

Dean smiled, briefly.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just make sure you stop at _smilin_.  You don’t want to go breakin any hearts, now that you’re cute.  Wouldn’t be fair.”

Sam grinned at this.  Like _Dean_ could talk.  Girls had been regularly known to cry over _him_ (when they weren’t crushing on him that is…or spitting mad).  And also… “You think I’m cute?” Sam asked softly, teasing.

Dean looked up.  That gaze.  Sam felt it, lighting him on fire.  He was blushing now, in the crowded cafeteria.  No one had noticed though, right?

“Yeah,” Dean whispered, almost soundless.  “You’re the cutest thing goin Sammy.”

Sam felt those words, that look, running through him like warm water.  He took a quick glance around.  No one was paying attention.  Then he looked back at Dean and _smiled,_ just for Dean, using that new, _winking_ smile, that come-fuck-me smile that Dean didn’t want him _ever_ using (on anyone _else,_ that is).

“Thanks,” Sam said sweetly.  He saw Dean’s eyes darken. 

And he knew his brother was holding himself still, preventing himself from reaching across the table and dragging Sam into his arms, kissing him in front of everybody.  It was quite satisfying, actually.

So things like that happened often enough. 

Even though Sam was careful.

He was friendly, but didn’t flirt, even if girls flirted with him.  And he kept _miles_ away from any boys who gave off that vibe (for their own protection), pretending that he didn’t notice.  And he totally ignored the older dudes –walked through those second glances like air- he didn’t even want to _think_ about how Dean would react, if he thought Sam had encouraged any of _them._

And he continued to _not_ hang out with other kids (for the most part) on the lunch hours that Dean didn’t seek him out, or take them up on invitations to go hang out after school. 

It was too…complicated.

Not long after the almost-fight between him and Dean in the cafeteria, Sam was asked back to this kid Tom’s house to study (they were in science class together, and Tom was his lab partner).   Tom had invited him before, but Sam always put him off, or suggested they study together at the school library (but it closed at three-thirty, and _Dean_ would often show up before they were done, sitting at another table and staring at them silently…real normal, thanks Dean).  

He always regretted turning Tom down though.  He liked him.

Finally, him and Tom sitting together at lunch (Dean was away that day, skipping school to be with their dad).  “How come you never come over to my house, Sam?” Tom asked him.  “I’ve asked you like, five times.”

Sam shrugged.  “I dunno, just busy I guess.  It’s not like I don’t _want_ to.”

“Well why don’t you come today?” Tom said.  “We can study and then play video games.  My dad got me a Sega Playstation for my birthday ‘n’ I just got _Wild 9_.  It rocks.  ‘N’ you can stay for dinner ‘n’ then we can walk my dog in the park.  Whaddaya say?”

Sam wanted to.  His plans for _that_ afternoon were going back to the motel by himself, taking a run (five miles minimum, he logged the distance and time in a notebook for Dean and their dad to check), then throwing his hunting knife at the dartboard for like, a zillion times (again, logging his score), and then eating something out of the fridge (probably leftover pizza) and then hiking over to the town library (open till eight thirty – it was either that or hang out in the empty motel room), with Dean picking him up from there unless he got held up for some reason (Dean had said he and their dad expected to be wrapped up by then, and he always liked to pick Sam up when he had the chance – sometimes taking him out for ice cream before heading back to the motel). 

“What time would we be done?” Sam asked cautiously.

“I dunno,” Tom answered.  “Eight maybe?  We eat at six thirty.  And then we can walk Harley.  My folks can give you a ride home, if that helps.  They won’t mind.”

“No, I don’t need that,” Sam said absently.  “But thanks though.”

“So does that mean you’ll come?” Tom asked hopefully.

Sam hesitated.  If he left at eight, he could still meet Dean at the library for eight thirty.  And as for the training…he could do a double session on Saturday, catch up.  Update his log for review on Sunday, like always (I mean…it wouldn’t be _slacking…_ he’d have still done the training).  And he wasn’t going anywhere _dangerous,_ I mean, he’d be at Tom’s house…with his _parents,_ for god’s sake.  What was there for Dean to be worried about?

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Sure.”

“Do you have to check with your folks?” Tom asked him.

Sam thought about this.  He _was_ supposed to _,_ actually (check with Dean that is, his dad didn’t care).  And Dean didn’t like Sam changing his routine without permission.  But if Sam asked him, Dean might say no ( _probably_ would, in fact).  And Sam suddenly didn’t think he could bear it.  Dean, expecting him to spend another evening by himself, just because he was so paranoid jealous of anyone else in Sam’s life. 

If Sam didn’t ask, just _assumed_ …and met Dean at the library as planned anyway...he didn’t think Dean would be that upset.  I mean…on what grounds?

“Naw,” Sam said.  “My dad’s out anyway, workin.  And Dean won’t mind.”

“You sure?” Tom asked, rather nervously (no doubt remembering Dean in the school library, eyes on him and Sam like a cop).  “When you goin to tell him?”

“Later,” Sam said casually.  “He’s not here today.  I’ll call ‘im after school, let him know where I am.”

“Okay, cool,” Tom said.  He smiled at Sam.  “It’ll be fun.”

Sam smiled back.  He liked Tom, he was a decent study partner (and smart too, though not as smart as Sam).  He could be a friend, if Sam let him.  And he clearly wanted to be.

And video games.  A home-cooked dinner.  A dog.

Fun.

Sam wanted to go.

He called Dean after school, got his brother’s voicemail (they both had cellphones now, Dean for hunting purposes, and Sam because Dean insisted).  Left Dean a message, letting him know he’d gone to Tom’s and that he’d still meet Dean at the library at eight thirty (he wasn’t so keen on Dean picking him up at Tom’s house –Dean right after a hunt was a different person – it would be hard for him to pass for a normal highschool student, plus there was always the chance he _would_ be mad, and show up on Tom’s doorstep looking murderous).  Sam put his cellphone in his knapsack (normally he carried it in his jacket pocket, but he wasn’t wearing his jacket right now, it was a warm day for March and he’d tied his jacket around his waist).  Then he and Tom walked over to Tom’s house, talking and laughing.

They ended up playing video games in Tom’s basement until dinner, hooting, until Tom’s mom called them up.  And then eating with Tom’s family, his mom, dad, his cute younger sister Jenna (who gazed at Sam adoringly throughout the meal), and Tom’s older brother Cameron (in grade eleven, Sam had seen him around the halls, one of the jocks, kind of a loudmouth, much different from the quieter Tom, but he was being nice, right now).  Sam sitting there, eating chicken casserole with peas and carrots (“eat your vegetables Jenna, see _Sam’s_ eating them,” Tom’s mom saying), politely fielding questions from Tom’s mom and dad, watching Tom’s family, this lively, talkative family, in casual conversation with him and each other around their shining dining room table.  Tom, smiling at him encouragingly, rolling his eyes at Sam when Tom’s dad made a joke. 

Sam felt a great warm liking rising up in himself, for Tom, sitting across from him.  Tom, his friend.  Including Sam, in this.

And then after dinner, taking Tom’s dog Harley to the park.  Letting him off leash, throwing a ball around, Harley chasing it, barking, Tom and Sam throwing it for him enthusiastically (Harley was pretty talented at catching that ball – and you could see he was pleased with himself).  Sam was having a great time.

It was dark. 

Sam registered this suddenly.  “Oh shit!” he said.  “What time is it?”

“I dunno,” Tom said.  “I don’t have a watch.  Do you?”

“No,” Sam said.  “Lemme just check my cell- Oh _shit!”_   He went white.

“What?” Tom asked curiously.

Sam was patting his jacket pockets.  “I forget my cellphone,” he said.  “It’s in my knapsack in your room.  _Shit!”_

“Well, at least you know where it is,” Tom said, sensibly.  “It’s not like you lost it.  I think it’s cool that you even _have_ a cellphone.”  (Not many kids did yet – Sam was the only one who did that Tom knew personally).

“I know, but-“ Sam didn’t finish.  Dean had probably called him twenty times by now.  He’d be furious.  “Let’s get goin,” he said.

“Okay,” Tom said.  “Harley!”

It took them awhile to get Harley back on his leash (he was all excited, showing off for Tom’s friend).  And then the ten minute walk back to Tom’s house.  Tom’s mom, meeting them at the door.  “I just got off the phone with your brother,” she said to Sam.  “He called here, asking for you.  Said he’d been trying to reach you and you hadn’t answered your cellphone.  I told him that you and Tom were probably on your way back from the park.  Maybe you should call him, Sam.  He sounded worried.” 

“Thanks Mrs. Jorgensen.”  Sam’s eyes went to the grandfather clock in the front hallway.  Eight fifty-five.  Dean had probably lost his cool at eight _thirty_ five.  Shit.  Sam bounded up the stairs.  Ran into Cameron.  “Hey Sam,” Cameron said.

Sam barely looked at him.  “Hey.”  He opened Tom’s bedroom door.  Cameron put a hand on Sam’s arm.  “Sam.”

Sam looked at him impatiently.  “Yeah?”

“I, er, answered your phone,” Cameron said.

 _“What?”_ Sam said.  He took another look at Cameron.  Tom’s brother was grey.

“I heard this ringin sound, from Tom’s room,” Cameron said.  “It kept goin on and on, and finally I went in, to see what it was.  It was your phone, ‘n’ I answered it, like a joke.”

Oh no.  Sam closed his eyes briefly.  “What happened?” he said.

“It was your brother,” Cameron said.  He swallowed.  “Dean.  He said he was gonna put me in the hospital.  He wasn’t serious, was he?”

“No,” Sam said.  He smiled reassuringly at Cameron.  “He was just jokin.  Don’t worry.”

Cameron didn’t smile back.  “He sounded pretty mad,” he said.  “Made me tell ‘im my name ‘n’ address, said he was comin over.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said.  “I’ll call him, now.”

“Tell him it was just a joke, okay?”  Cameron said.  “I didn’t mean it.”

“What did you say?” Sam asked him.

“I answered…`Sam’s Party Line,’” Cameron said.  “Said you couldn’t come to the phone right now because you were…busy.”

Great.

“Where’s my phone?” Sam asked him briefly.

“In your bag,” Cameron said.  “You’ll tell him, right?  I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

“Sure,” Sam said.  He was on his knees, digging through his knapsack for his phone.  Found it, just as it went off again.  Answered it.  “Dean.”

 _“SAMMY!”_  Dean was yelling.  _“You’re LATE!  And why the fuck didn’t you pick up when I called you?”_

Sam looked up.  Both Cameron and Tom were standing in the doorway, staring at him.

“Dean,” he hissed, “I c’nt talk right now.  I’ll call you back, okay?”

“You _stay on the line!”_   Dean yelled. 

“Dean-“ Sam said desperately.  “I have to go.  I’ll call you back, okay?”

“SAMMY!  DON’T YOU HA-“ Sam pressed the disconnect button.  He looked at Tom.  “Sorry Tom, looks like I hafta go.  I had a great time, though.  Tell your mom thanks for-“  His phone rang again.

Sam turned his phone off.   

“Are you in trouble?” Tom asked him.

“No,” Sam said.  “Everything’s fine.  But I have to go now.  Okay?”  He brushed past Tom and Cameron, ran down the stairs, brushed past Tom’s mom, standing in the hall. 

“Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Jorgensen,” Sam said, walking rapidly towards the front door.  “It was great meeting you all.”

“It was nice having you too, Sam,” Tom’s mom said.  “Is everything alright with your brother?”

“Everything’s fine,” Sam said.  “I just spoke with him.  I’m going to meet him, now.”

“You can wait for him here, if you want,” Mrs. Jorgensen said.

“No, that’s okay,” Sam said.  “He’s waiting for me at the library.  He just got worried because I was late and he couldn’t reach me, that’s all.”

Tom had trailed Sam down the stairs.  “You’ll come over again, right Sam?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “I had a great time, thanks Tom.”  He’d opened their front door.  “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Tom said.

“Bye Sam,” Mrs. Jorgensen said.

“Bye.”  Sam let himself out, bounded down the front stairs.  Walked rapidly down the street, his phone in his hand.  Called Dean.  Dean picked up before the ring was half over.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” he yelled.

“I’m just leavin Tom’s house _,_ Jesus, Dean.” Sam said.  “I’m walkin over to the library now.”

“Well I’m not there anymore,” Dean said grumpily.  “I’m on my way over to you.  Got your friend’s address from his douchebag of a brother.  Who’s gonna be hurtin, tomorrow.”

“You’re not doin anything to him, Dean, so shut up,” Sam said.  “And thanks for freaking everyone out, by the way.  That was smooth.”

“Well, nothin would have happened if you hadn’t gone over there without permission,” Dean answered sharply.  “And then not answerin your phone, when I called you, like twenty times.  And then…not showin up when you were supposed to _and_ not callin.”  His voice rose.  “And then… _hangin up on me!_   _Turnin your_ _phone off on me!”_   He was yelling, again.

“Well nothing happened _anyway,_ Dean!”  Sam yelled back at him.  He was furious, finally.  “Nothing _happened!_   Except _you,_ freakin out!”

“I c’n see you,” Dean’s voice was cold.

Sam turned around.  Waited, as the Impala pulled up beside him.  Dean rolled down the window.  “Get in,” he said.

Sam got in silently.  Dean didn’t say a word to him on the way back to the motel and Sam had nothing to say, either. 

They parked.  “Where’s Dad?” Sam asked.  Maybe they could drop in on their dad, say hi to him.

“In his room,” Dean said.  “Probably got half a mickey in him, by now.  Leave him alone.”

Dean opened their door, entered their room.  Turned on the lights, quickly scanning.  Gestured Sam in. 

Sam entered, closing and locking the door behind him.  Dean took off his jacket.  Then he unbuttoned his long sleeved shirt and shrugged it off, just wearing a t-shirt now.  Sam watched this, swallowing.

Dean turned to him.  “Bring it here,” he said.  He sat down in one of the battered motel chairs.

Sam bent and retrieved the hairbrush from his knapsack.  Then he walked over to Dean, carrying it.  Dean sat there, looking up at Sam silently.  Sam handed him the brush.  Then he took off his shoes and socks.  Undid his jeans and pulled them off.  Pulled off his shorts and stepped out of them.  Rolled his own plaid shirt and tshirt carefully up under his arms, getting them out of the way.   Draped himself over Dean’s knees.

Dean started spanking him immediately, hard and fast, with no warm up and no further conversation.  He spanked until Sam was sobbing breathlessly, cringing under the blows.  Then he stopped, throwing the brush to the floor.

“Get up,” he said.

Sam scrambled to his feet.  He stood between Dean’s knees, tears running down his face.

“Why’d you do it Sammy?” Dean asked him.  “Puttin me through all that?”

“It wasn’t about _you,_ Dean,” Sam said.  “I just wanted to do something like other kids _,_ for a change.  I’m sorry I was late ‘n’ didn’t answer my phone, but I just forgot, okay?  It wasn’t such a crime.”

“…You’re not sorry you worried me,” Dean said.

“Why were you even _worried?”_ Sam said.  “I was at a _friend’s_ house.”

“You were _late.”_

“Not by much, _Jesus_ Dean.  What’s the matter with you?”

“Don’t you talk that way Sammy, unless you want to go over my knee again,” Dean said coldly.  “You were late ‘n’ couldn’t be reached ‘n’ I was _worried._ ‘N’ then on top of it all I end up talkin to that… _douchebag_ on _your_ phone _._   What were you doin with him, anyway? _”_

 _“Nothin,_ Dean, I was out at the park with Tom.  We took his dog there.”

“Uh huh…well, hearin that prick tellin me you were…foolin around…was like the icin on the cake,” Dean said.

“Made you mad, huh.” Sam said.

“I was already mad,” Dean replied.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said.  He was furious, suddenly.  “You weren’t _worried,_ Dean.  If you’d stopped to think for two seconds you’d know I was perfectly fine.  You were just _pissed_ that I went somewhere without waitin for your say.”

Dean stared at him silently.  Then said, “You’re not goin over there again.”

What a _dick._

“I will if I want to,” Sam said furiously.

“You do, you’re not sittin for a week,” Dean replied in a hard voice.

Sam felt tears rising, again.  His butt was throbbing.  “Dean,” he said thickly, “you’re bein so unfair.  I’m sorry I was late okay?  I’m sorry I forgot my phone.  But… _c’mon…_ what’s wrong with me havin a friend?”

He saw Dean thinking about this. 

“Everythin,” Dean answered.  He didn’t elaborate.

Sam stared at him, wordlessly.  Then said,

“Dean…can’t you…just relax?  About me?”  Tears were in his eyes.  “Why do you have to take everything about me so hard?”

Dean was silent.  Then said, quietly, “I don’t know.”  He looked down at his hands.

Sam stared at his brother’s bent head.  His butt was throbbing and stinging.  Normally he’d be in Dean’s arms by now, Dean holding him, murmuring to him comfortingly.  But he felt no impulse to do that.  He felt no desire to be close to Dean at all.  He stared down at his brother silently.

Dean looked up, met Sam’s eyes.  They looked at each other.  Then suddenly Dean leaned forward and put his arms around Sam’s waist.  Buried his face against Sam’s stomach.

“You drive me crazy,” he said.  “Sometimes.  You know that, right?”

Sam looked down at his brother’s blonde head, pressed tight against him.  He sighed.  Then stroked Dean’s hair.  “I know,” he said.

“Make that _most_ of the time,” Dean said.

“I know,” Sam said.  He stroked Dean’s hair.  “Dad says that too,” he said.  “I’m just crazy-makin, I guess.”  He heard Dean laugh, ruefully.

“I want you to be happy, Sammy,” he said, quietly now.  “More than anythin.  And when you’re not…when you do things that make me think you’re not…I get real upset.”

“I know,” Sam said sadly.

“I love you,” Dean whispered.  His arms were tight around Sam’s waist.

“I know,” Sam whispered back. 

And he loved Dean back suddenly.  Loved him, loved him back, and he wanted Dean to know it.  He leaned over Dean’s bent head, tilted his brother’s face up.  Kissed him.  “I love you too,” he said.  Dean’s mouth, opening under his.  “Let’s go to bed,” Sam said.

Dean stood up, took Sam’s face in his own hands.  And then they were kissing, kissing each other like always, intent, endless kisses like that’s what they were there for, like that was their mission on earth, kissing each other, and eventually ending up on the bed, eventually fucking and Sam not minding even with his ass painfully throbbing, because Dean was so tender with him now, so careful with him.

And they were so careful and considerate with each other the next day.  And the next, and for the rest of the week.  It took them awhile to get mad at each other, again.

But the next time Tom invited Sam over, Sam said no.  And Tom didn’t ask him again, after that.  And soon after that, Dean and Sam left town.

Being Dean’s happily-ever-after. 

Calling it `demanding’ didn’t even _begin_ to cover how much work that involved.  _Dean_ …he was a full time job.  And to be honest…Dean’s happily-ever-after didn’t look much like _Sam’s_ happily-ever _,_ other than the fact that they were together.

But that was okay.  Sam could live with that (for now).  Because he had plans.

Sam was sitting in the local library of their latest town (a small city actually, south of Cleveland, their family rolling in about a month ago – it was now the last week in April, Sam’s fifteenth birthday coming up fast).  Sprawled in an armchair in front of a large window, his feet propped against the low table in front of him, said table covered with a pile of textbooks, papers and library books he’d pulled from the stacks.  He’d finished his homework and was now paging idly through one of those books ( _Heretics_ by G.K. Chesterton, published 1905).  It had been a hobby with Sam for some time now, to read his way through sections of subjects, in alphabetical order (Astronomy, Economics, Geography, History…).  He stayed in strict order, picking up his place on the shelf from wherever he’d left off at the _last_ library (right now he was on Philosophy, next up, Psychology).  He didn’t read _everything_ page to page (some of it was simply too deadly boring and some of it…to be honest, he still didn’t understand it so well), but he made a point of dipping into pretty much every book within a library’s subject category and at least skimming the chapters for interest.

Since January, the time Sam spent in libraries (and it was already quite a lot), had climbed dramatically.  Once Dean turned eighteen, he was out with their dad almost every evening and often during the days too, missing school.   The time he had available to spend with Sam (time for training and homework that is, they still made time for sex) had become quite limited.  So Sam ended up going to the library, either before or after his (now solitary) training, and staying there during the evenings (as long as he was back in their motel room by 9 p.m.), to prevent him from going stir crazy in those lonely, shabby motel rooms by himself.  Dean would come by as often as possible to pick him up.  But sometimes he would just call in to check on Sam (how he was doing, where he was, _what_ he was doing…).  And Sam made sure to answer his cellphone, whenever that call from Dean came in.  He didn’t want any hairbrush spankings over a missed call.

And even if he wasn’t around as much, Dean didn’t let up his expectations for Sam’s training.  Sam was still expected to work hard at it every day and account to Dean for it (and Dean took a close look at Sam’s progress whenever he had time – usually on the weekends).  And if Dean thought Sam had slacked off at all – boy was he was in for it, returning to class Monday mornings with a blazing sore ass.  Consequently, Sam was in excellent shape, as good a shot (Sam thought better, but didn’t say so) as both Dean and their dad, deadly with the knife, and lethal at hand to hand.  Whenever he and Dean practice-fought, Sam went at his brother _hard,_ often under the approving eyes of their dad, often pinning his brother beneath him, despite the difference (still there, but less now) in their size and weight.  Their dad had said he’d be taking Sam out with them soon, now that he was taller and had stopped looking so much like a kid.  Sam was pretty much ready, their dad said.  Dean had looked both proud and scared, listening to their dad say that.

(And after their dad left, Sam going at Dean hard in another way, the two of them grappling at each other, gasping, their mouths devouring each other, tearing at each other’s clothes, Sam eventually naked, writhing, pinned to the bed on his back or stomach – pinned by Dean’s cock, getting fucked by Dean like a maniac, moaning, eventually coming to the sound of his brother’s hoarse voice, crying out Sam’s name). 

Sam was accustomed now, to fucking with Dean (true to Sam’s expectations, once they’d crossed that line there was no going back).  And, to be honest, it was pretty damn enjoyable.  Dean and he had figured it out, like they’d figured out the other things.

The training.  The fucking.  The hunting (coming up).  Sam was keeping up his end of their deal.  And Dean was happy about this (why shouldn’t he be?).  But Dean was struggling. 

With his homework.  It wasn’t getting done.

Dean was trying, Sam had to give him that.  And at first, Sam had given him a pretty hard time about slacking (and ended up over Dean’s knee on several, memorably painful, occasions, as a result).

But between the hunting and the pool hustling and other cons and the training and the just…keeping their lives going, like Dean was used to doing (although Sam helped out now too, with laundry and cooking and shopping, but Dean was used to it…it was habitual with him, plus their dad expected it – and Sam was _no_ good with their dad when he was drunk – that remained Dean’s job)… 

Between all of that…it was often down to a matter of school or sleep.  And Sam could see that Dean was short on sleep, his face pale, dark rings under his eyes (although he was still gorgeous – _that_ would never change – this gorgeous, pale, exhausted person, still drawing fascinated attention wherever he went). 

And Sam could see Dean struggling to focus on school, constantly having to catch up now because of missing so many classes, starting to nod over his homework (always deadly boring for him anyway) in the afternoons, sitting across the table from Sam, that quiet time with Sam a brief period of respite before he was out again with their dad, often into the early hours of the morning.  And his grades had slipped (no surprise there).  Dean didn’t flip his assignments back to Sam anymore, a cocky grin on his face.  He hadn’t said anything about it but he was embarrassed by them, Sam saw (an added weight on his brother, and Sam felt bad for him, about that). 

Their dad didn’t seem to care that Dean was struggling with school.  If anything, he’d upped the pressure on the _other_ front, spending long hours with Dean planning and debriefing from the hunts when he wasn’t _out_ with Dean, Dean over in their dad’s room, the two of them staring at the scrabble of papers pinned to their dad’s wall, Sam sometimes coming over with Dean (so he wouldn’t be alone), sprawled on their dad’s bed, listening to his brother and dad discuss the issues of the hunt (and sometimes contributing his two cents’ worth – Dean and their dad respected his brains – his _nerdiness,_ Dean called it). 

So yeah.  Sam didn’t sense, anymore, that their dad cared whether Dean stayed in school.  He certainly never _asked_ Dean about how he was doing with school, seemed to feel that any time his oldest son spent away from him was an imposition on _him._   And Sam was reluctant to say anything about it either.   Dean had demonstrated (pretty clearly) that he was unreceptive to any expression of concern ( _nagging,_ he called it) on Sam’s part, about the state of his academics, and Sam was nervous that if he pushed it, Dean would stop trying altogether.  And Dean didn’t have long to go now, until graduation. 

And there was still hope for a…community college, maybe.  Dean could still get a mechanic’s license, for example, find a legitimate job working with cars, like he loved, maybe open his own shop, one day.  With the stellar grades Dean had pulled in for at least part of high school, he’d get into a local college without any difficulty, maybe even with a scholarship, despite his struggles right now.  So Sam kept his mouth shut.  He helped Dean as much as possible, but didn’t push him, like he had before.

(But he was pushing himself.  Sam had made up his mind, after his talk with that English teacher last fall, two schools back, that _he_ was going to college…and a good one…one way or another.  He knew Dean and their dad expected him to join them full time as a hunter soon as he was grown up.  But _he_ was going to college and that was all there was to it.  He hadn’t said anything to Dean about this -he’d wait for the right moment- but he’d decided that, for himself).

And those plans included Dean too.  Sam had spent years waiting for Dean to rescue him, take him away from this crazy life, for the two of them to leave their dad and start over, together. 

The dream of a kid.  For awhile Sam had felt really sad (and _dumb,_ he’d been so stupid back then, to think that _that_ would ever happen), whenever he remembered that dream.  But now he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t waiting for it to happen, anymore.  It never would, he accepted that.

But… _he_ could still rescue _Dean._   _He_ could go to college.  Get away from their dad and his stale obsession.  Get a _real_ job that paid decent bucks.  And then…Dean could live with _him._   And Dean could do whatever he wanted, hunt still, even, if he wanted (Sam would be understanding), on a…let’s say a part time basis.  He could still go out on trips with their dad even, maintain that connection.  Just not all the time, like now.  And he wouldn’t be stuck playing the cons, never having real work, drifting endlessly from place to place.  Sam would make a home for Dean to come back to.  A base.

A life.

Sam would think about this sometimes, when he wasn’t with Dean, or even when he _was_ with him, dreaming (zoning out, Dean called it). 

Sam sat in the library chair, staring absently out the window at the library parking lot, his book forgotten.  Thinking about this.

The life that he would build for Dean. 

Fast forward ten years or so, to Somewhere, USA.

Sam peered into the oven, in the bright, yellow painted kitchen of the two story red brick house with the gingerbread trim and wraparound porch he shared with Dean (they’d bought it together last year), checking the turkey.  It was gleaming and brown, surrounded with roasted vegetables and potatoes, ready to put on the table.  Sam was pleased.  He’d put the turkey in the oven before going to work that morning (he was a lawyer at the biggest law firm downtown, with his own secretary and an office with a view), figuring it would be done by the time he came home, and it was.  He took it out of the oven carefully and put it on the gleaming dark wood dining room table.  Went back to the kitchen to get plates.  Heard the front door open.  Dean’s voice.  “Sammy!  You home?”

“In here, Dean.”

Dean strolled into the kitchen, beaming, his bright green eyes lit up at the sight of Sam.  Walked over to him quickly, took Sam in his arms.  “SammySam.”  Kissing him.  Sam put the plates down on the counter, wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, kissing him back.  The two of them kissing, for awhile.

“What’s that I smell?” Dean said eventually, murmuring against Sam’s mouth.

“Roast turkey, with all the fixings,” Sam said. 

“Mmm…just like Thanksgiving…thanks baby.”

“Sure.”

“Lemme clean up and change and I’ll be right down,” Dean said (he was sweaty and grimy from his day at the autobody shop he owned, wearing a pair of blue coveralls).

“Okay.”  Dean left, with a final kiss for Sam and a pat on his butt.  Sam finished setting the table, putting out a beer for Dean and a Coke for himself.  Dean was back, wearing a green pullover sweater and a pair of clean, faded jeans.  He gave Sam another quick kiss, then sat down at the table.  “Shall I carve, honey?”

“Sure.”  Sam handed Dean the carving knife and fork and Dean cut into the turkey expertly, serving both him and Sam generous portions.  Sam heaped scalloped potatoes and oven roasted vegetables onto their plates.  They ate.

“How’s Dad doing?” Sam asked.

“Not bad,” Dean said.  “He’s away for a few weeks with Bobby, but called and said he’d be by later in the month.  Might stay with us for a week or two.”

“That’s fine,” Sam said (they kept a room for their dad at the back of the house, and their dad would come and go, never staying for more than a couple of weeks).  “You going out with him on the next hunt?”

“Maybe,” Dean said casually.  “Depends what’s going on at the shop.  If it’s not too busy and Greg can handle things (Greg was his assistant manager), I’ll go.  Will you be okay if I take off for a couple of days?” 

“Sure,” Sam said (agreeably).  “You know I’m fine with you hunting whenever you can work it in.  And Dad appreciates it.”

Dean smiled at him.  “Thanks Sammy.  You’re the best, did I ever tell you that?”

Sam smiled back.  “You say that all the _time,_ Dean, you know that.”

Dean smiling at him from across their dining room table, his eyes soft.  “And I mean it too,” he said gently.

Later, after dessert (apple pie and chocolate ice cream), they snuggled up together on the couch, watching videos.  Then they went to bed.

Sam, staring at the library parking lot. 

Would they have a dog, he wondered?  Dean didn’t like dogs that much (said they smelled).  But Sam loved dogs and never missed an opportunity to pet one.  They’d have a dog, he decided.  A big, long hair type dog, like a Newfoundland.  He’d keep it bathed, so it wouldn’t smell.  Yeah, that would work.  He picked up his spiral notebook and turned to the back page.  Started doodling dog names on the back.

His phone rang, on vibrate mode.  Sam jumped to answer it.  “Yeah?” he said softly.

“Sammy, I’m comin to get you,” Dean said.  “I’ll be there in like a minute.  Get your stuff together.”

“What’s the rush?”

“We gotta leave town.”

_“What!”_

“Dad’s at the motel, packin up.  After I pick you up we get him ‘n’ then we gotta roll.”

_“Why!”_

Dean’s voice, irritated.  “Cause things got _hot,_ Sammy, what do you think? 

“But-“

“No arguin, you know better ‘n’ that,” Dean said.  “I’m nearly there.  Come outside.”

Sam was on his feet now, stuffing his books and papers into his knapsack.  Hissed into the phone, “Dean, what about _school!_   I have a _test_ tomorrow and so do you!”

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean’s voice softened.  “It’ll sort itself out, okay?”

“We can’t leave school _now,”_ Sam said.  “We miss much in the way of time now, we’ll be messed up for the final term.  Didn’t _Dad_ stop to think about that?”

“You’ll do fine, Sammy, you always do,” Dean said.  “Little brainiac.”

“But what about _you?”_ Sam asked him.

“…I’m not goin back,” Dean said, after a moment.

_“What!”_

“It’s just too much right now, okay Sammy?” Dean said.  “Things just went south on this hunt ‘n’ Dad’s gonna need my help.  I gotta concentrate on that, I can’t be worryin about enrollin in another school, sittin there twiddlin my thumbs with all this other shit goin on _._ Plus we’re light on cash, I’m gonna need to take care of that on top of everythin else.”

“No,” Sam whispered softly.  He was standing frozen, staring out the window, his hand clenched around his cellphone.

“What?” Dean said.  “Didn’t hear you, Sammy.”

“I said, _NO!”_ Sam yelled at the top of his lungs.  Heads turned in his direction.  The librarian behind the desk got up, started making her way over.

“Did you just yell…in a _library?”_   Dean asked him.

“You can’t fuckin… _do that,_ Dean!” Sam yelled.  Tears were in his eyes.  The librarian was in front of him now.  “Young man, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” she said.  Put a hand on Sam’s arm.

Sam wrenched away from her, turned his back.  “You’re not fuckin _droppin out!”_ he yelled into the phone.

 _“Sam!”_ Dean said.  “That’s enough!”

“Young man!” the librarian said.  “That’s quite enough!”

Sam ignored both of them.  “You can’t drop out Dean and that’s _it!”_ he yelled.

“Sammy, Jesus, we’ll talk about it later, okay?” Dean said.  “Right now we have to get outa here and hightail it to Bobby’s, drop you off.  Then Dad ‘n’ I are goin to be away for a couple of weeks, but once we’re back we’ll figure it out.  Alright?  So calm down and come outside.  I’m nearly there.”

Sam wasn’t calm.  “You drop out ‘n’ you c’n forget about pickin me up, _Dean!”_ he yelled.  “I’m not gonna _be here!”_

“Sammy…you get your butt out here right now!” Dean’s voice was hard.  Sam saw the Impala pulling into the library parking lot.

 _“NO!”_   Sam yelled.  _“Fuck you, Dean!”_

“Sammy you get out here RIGHT NOW!”  Dean was yelling back.  He parked the Impala roughly and jumped out.

Sam’s eyes were trained on him.  Dean began running towards the library entrance, the cellphone plastered to his ear.

“Young man,” the librarian said, “I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t bother,” Sam said.  “I’m goin.”

 _“Sammy!”_ Dean’s voice, yelling into the phone.  _“You-_ “  Sam pressed the disconnect button.  Then he tossed the phone on the floor, grabbed his wallet out of his knapsack and headed at a dead run towards a door at the back of the room marked ‘Emergency Exit Only – Alarm will Sound.’ Barrelled through, an alarm immediately going off, shrilling loudly.  He ran down a short flight of cement stairs and out another door.  Exited the back of the library into a laneway bordered with square, brick buildings, four or five stories tall.  Glanced quickly in both directions and took off down the laneway, running as fast as he could.  He heard fire trucks now in the distance, their sirens howling.  There was a narrow space between two buildings on his right.  Sam turned sharply into it.  Ran down the narrow corridor into another laneway.  This one ended at a busy street.  Sam could see a stream of cars, passing in the distance.  He ran down the laneway towards the street, glancing around for options.  Dean would be behind him any minute and Sam knew his brother wouldn’t hesitate to tackle him, whether they were in public or not.  There was a window ledge beside him about four feet up and then…a flight of metal stairs with a ladder at the bottom, about three feet to the right of the ledge.  A bit of a jump, but doable.  Sam glanced up.  The fire escape stairs would get him onto the roof.  Sam pulled himself up onto the window ledge, edged carefully over towards the metal ladder then leaped across three feet of air.  Grabbed onto the ladder’s metal bars and hauled himself up.  Then ran rapidly up the stairs to the roof, leaping over the parapet wall.

Just in time.

 _“Sammy!”_   Dean’s voice, a raw shout.

Sam peeked over the ledge of the parapet.  He saw Dean, paused at the narrow entrance between the two buildings that Sam had just come through, peering in both directions.  He was holding Sam’s knapsack in one hand.

“Sammy!”  Dean was running down the laneway towards the street.  “Sammy!  C’mon!”  His voice was ragged.  Sam stared down at him, tears in his eyes.  He kept quiet.

The sirens were loud now.  The firetrucks must have arrived at the library.  Dean ran to the end of the laneway, disappearing from view.  He would be on the street, looking frantically around for Sam. 

Dean suddenly appeared in the laneway again.  His head was turning back and forth, eyes scanning.  Sam jerked back, huddled down against the parapet wall.  Then he heard Dean’s voice.

“Sammy…I can’t stay.”  Dean was calling to him.  “Dad has to get out of here ‘n’ he needs the car.  So I can’t stay to look for you right now.”  Dean’s voice sounded broken.  Sam shut his eyes, hearing that.

“If you’re listenin…I’m not mad, okay?” Dean said.  “But I gotta go.  I’m sorry.  I’ll come back as soon as I can.” 

There was a silence.  Sam stayed huddled against the wall.  He sensed that Dean would be looking up.  He stayed quiet.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice.  “If I get held up…you call Bobby, okay?  He’ll send you money for a bus ticket.”

Sam was silent.

“Sammy…I gotta go.”  Dean’s voice, filled with distress.  “Please take care of yourself, alright?  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  Then the sound of Dean’s feet, running rapidly away.

Sam huddled for awhile against the wall. 

What was he going to do now?

He could always call Dean, say he was sorry.  Dean would be pissed (once he had Sam back, he'd be pissed), and for sure Sam was in for a wicked spanking, pulling this stunt.  But Dean would be forgiving…very forgiving…eventually.

But Sam just…didn’t want to do that.  And not just because of the spanking. 

 _(Dean, breaking his promise)_  

He was just sick of this whole situation.  Time to go.

_(But leaving Dean/but staying with him…after what he’d just done, just breaking his promise that Sam had taken so seriously like it was nothing)_

But where would he go?  He had about enough money in his wallet to buy himself a sandwich. 

He thought about calling Bobby, asking Bobby to wire him money, like Dean had suggested.  Once he got the money…he didn’t necessarily have to buy a bus ticket with it, did he? 

But that was…kind of mean.  And also, as soon as Bobby heard from him, Dean would know his location too.  Dean would be on him before the money arrived, even.

Well…he’d figure something out.  In the meantime, he had to get off this roof.  The sun was down and it was getting cold.  He couldn’t spend the night up here. 

And Dean had said he was coming back for him.  Just as soon as he got the car back to their dad.  So that gave Sam, what?  The motel was about a thirty minute drive away.  So say just over an hour, assuming Dean found himself some wheels to get back here without too much difficulty. 

Sam should use this time to get as far away as possible. 

He stood up, glanced cautiously over the side of the parapet.  The laneway was empty.  He climbed back down the way he had come, dropping lightly to the ground.  Looked around.  Saw a bicycle, propped against the back stairs of a building.  He could steal it, put some miles between himself and this place.  He had his lockpick in his wallet.  He started towards it.

And was grabbed from behind, a strong arm around his throat, dragging him backwards. 

“You little _brat.”_   Dean’s voice.

Sam immediately stomped behind him, aiming for Dean’s instep.  Jabbed an elbow backwards and grabbed for his knife at the same time.  But Dean forestalled him, neatly avoiding Sam’s foot and elbow and grabbing Sam’s wrist.  Sam twisted, trying to free himself.  His other hand came up, fingers extended like spikes towards Dean’s face.  But then Dean’s grip tightened and he bent Sam’s wrist back violently.  Sam gasped with pain.  “You fight me anymore ‘n’ this is gonna break in three places,” Dean said in a low voice.  “Don’t make me do it, Sammy.”

Sam subsided, tears coming to his eyes.  “I thought you’d gone back to Dad,” he said. 

“Nope,” Dean said.  “I was gonna…but then I figured you were hidin, just waitin till I was gone to sneak out of the woodwork.  So I doubled back.  Called Dad ‘n’ let him know we’d meet up with him later.  He’s stealin a car to get out of town.”

“Where’s the Impala?” Sam asked.

“Sittin where I left her,” Dean said.  “In the library parkin lot.  I haven’t been back to her yet, too much heat there after all that drama _you_ created, thanks a lot, by the way, the whole cavalry showin up, and that librarian, screechin.  Decided to wait for things to settle down first.  And I didn’t want to get too far from _you.”_

Dean’s arm was still around Sam’s neck, his other hand pinning Sam’s wrist, painfully.  He’d drawn Sam tight up against his body.  “Let me go,” Sam said.  “I won’t try to run.”

Dean released his grip from Sam’s neck.  But then he grabbed Sam by both shoulders and slammed him hard into a wall.  Leaned into him.  “What were you _thinkin_ Sammy?” he said.  “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

Sam stared up at his brother.  Dean was glaring at him, his eyes furious and distressed.

“You broke our deal, Dean,” Sam said. 

“What deal?” Dean asked him.

“Our _deal,”_ Sam said.  “Where I was goin to work hard at the trainin, do everythin you asked for… like you _wanted,_ ‘n’ you were gonna try your best, in school.  Remember?  So what part of _droppin out of school_ means that you’re _still_ _tryin?”_

Dean released him.  He stood before Sam, his hands at his sides.  “I’m sorry Sammy,” he said.  “I can’t.”

 _“Why NOT?”_   Sam asked him.  He was yelling again.

“Sammy, shh, Jesus,” Dean said.  He glanced around.  Then looked at Sam.  His face was sad.  Sam saw this, but didn’t feel particularly sympathetic.  _“Well?”_ he asked.

“It’s too much, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.  “It’s too much, don’t you see?  Dad really needs me right now.  And…school just doesn’t mean that much to me.  It never has.  I think it’s all bullshit, truly.”

“But you’ve got less than _three months,_ Dean,” Sam said.  “Before you graduate.  Why can’t you just stick it out?”

“I don’t care about graduating,” Dean said.  _“You_ were the one who cared about that, not me.  I was doing it for you.  I’d have dropped out long before, if it hadn’t been so important to you.”

“But it’s still important to me,” Sam said.  Tears were rising in his eyes again.  “Doesn’t that _mean_ anything to you anymore, Dean?”

“It does,” Dean said.  “And I feel like shit for disappointing you Sammy, I really do.  But you gotta understand.  Dad needs me right now.  This hunt…it’s dangerous, Sammy, and Dad needs me to watch his back.  If somethin happened to Dad…because I was sittin in math class…I’d never forgive myself.”

“But why does it have to be you?” Sam asked him.  “Why can’t Dad go with Bobby?”

Dean’s eyes hardened.  “Bobby’s great,” he said.  “But he’s not a hunter like me.  He’s more the guy behind the scenes, you _know_ that Sammy.  Dad needs _me,_ he said so, and I’m not gonna let him down.”

“But you’re gonna let _me_ down,” Sam said bitterly.

“…I’m sorry,” Dean said.  “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

“I don’t see how,” Sam said.

Dean’s shoulders slumped.  “Look,” he said.  “I’ll graduate, somehow, okay?  I’ll get a GED.  You c’n help me study for it.”

“That’s not the same,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.  “It’s good enough,” he said.  “I’m not plannin to take any more school, anyway, so what does it matter?”

“...What do you _mean?”_ Sam asked him.

“I mean I’m done with it,” Dean said.  “I’ve made up my mind, Sammy, I’m not seein the inside of a classroom again.  I’m through.”

“Dean, no,” Sam whispered.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean said.  “I thought you understood.  Huntin with Dad…you know that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.  ‘N’ I don’t want anythin to get in the way of that, anymore.”

“Including me,” Sam said.

“Sammy- “  Dean’s eyes on him, distressed.  He leaned forward.  Sam could see he was leaning in for a kiss.

Sam pushed him away.

“Fuck off,” he said.

“Sammy, please,” Dean said.  His voice was raw.  “Don’t be like this.  You know I can’t take it, from you.  And not _now,_ Jesus, when we’re dealin with this whole other situation.  Be fair.  C’mon.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean stood before him quietly, his face sad.

That hard, beautiful face, those sad eyes, on Sam, looking at him.

“Sammy,” Dean said, “I’ll make it up to you.  I promise.”

“Like your promises mean anything,” Sam said.

Dean’s face twisted.  “Don’t say that Sammy, c’mon.”

Sam, staring at him silently.  He didn’t want to fight anymore.  But he didn’t want to go with Dean either.  He stood there.

“We can fix this,” Dean said.  “You’ll see –there’s always a _solution,_ Sammy.”

“A solution for _you,_ you mean,” Sam said.  “For me, to end up doin what you want.”  He added, “And _that’s_ the most important thing for you, isn’t it?”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “Sam…you know I love you.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean almost never called him Sam.

Dean began to reach for him again then stopped.  His eyes on Sam, glimmering in the dusk.

“Please,” Dean said quietly.  “Don’t be like this.”

“…Fine,” Sam said, eventually, bitterly.  “You win.  I’ll help you study for the GED.  Whenever you c’n make the _time,_ that is, to sit down with me for more than five minutes.”  He bent down, picked up his knapsack.  Dean was staring at him.

“We should get goin,” Sam said.  “Meet up with Dad, prevent him from goin more ballistic than he already has.  You think the car’s clear now?”

Dean, looking at him.  “You’re gonna come with me?  Not cause any more trouble?”

Sam snorted.  “I said I wouldn’t didn’t I?  Besides…I don’t want to get my wrist broken.”

Dean looked stricken.  “Sammy, c’mon-“

Sam stared at him coldly.  “What, Dean?  You got what you wanted.  Let’s go.”  He turned and started walking back toward the library.

Dean caught up with him.  “Sammy…don’t you go freezin me out.”

Sam snorted again.  “Freezin you out.  How’m I doin that?  Aren’t I _agreein with you?_   Doin what you _say?_   What more do you want?”

Dean stopped in his tracks, grabbed Sam’s arm.  “Sammy…stop it.”

Sam looked down at Dean’s hand on his arm.  Looked up at Dean. “Stop what?” he asked politely.

Dean looked really upset now.  He released Sam’s arm and stood there, his hands at his sides.  “Sammy!  Stop it!  Or I’ll-“ he paused.

Sam smiled at him.  “Or you’ll…what?  Put me over your knee?  I’m in for that anyway.  Aren’t I?  The minute we’re back with Dad.  That’s the first thing he’s goin to say to you.  To give it to me good.”  He looked at Dean.  “And you will, won’t you?”

“Sammy-“

“Well you will,” Sam said.  “Won’t you?”

Dean looked defeated.  “Yes.”

“So let’s get goin then.”  Sam’s voice was hard.  “What’re you waitin for?”  He turned and walked away.

Dean followed him silently.

Now, driving.  It had been over an hour.  Sam sat quietly.  Dean had tried speaking to him a couple of times and Sam had answered, very politely, but impersonally.  Dean looked furious, but then gave up.  Now he was driving silently, his eyes fixed on the dark road.

“Where’re we meetin Dad?” Sam asked, eventually.

“Abandoned gas station, another hour from here,” Dean answered.  “He’s ditchin the stolen car there.  Then we head on to Bobby’s, drive through till mornin.”

“Where’s our stuff?” Sam asked.  “With Dad?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I asked him to pack up for us, when I realized I wasn’t comin back with you right away.”

“He must’ve loved that,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he was pretty thrilled alright,” Dean said briefly.

Silence again.

“So where’re you gonna do it?” Sam asked his brother.  “There or Bobby’s?”

“Do what?”

“The spankin,” Sam said.  “I bet you’re just dyin to get your hands on that hairbrush.”

Dean didn’t answer.  Sam watched him driving.  He felt a terrible, cold unhappiness descend over him, a mix of anger, grief and dread, settling over his body like a cloud.

Dean, driving on.   Sam watched him.  Then turned to face forward, staring off into the dark night.

Suddenly Dean pulled off the road, parking abruptly on the gravel shoulder.  Turned the Impala’s headlights off.   Sat silently, his hands still on the wheel.  Sam looked at him, surprised.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.  Dean was silent.

“Dean?”

“Get in the back, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.

“What?”  Sam’s stomach started to flutter.  “Why?”

“Just do it,” Dean said.  Sam didn't move.

Dean didn't look at him.  “Don’t make me ask twice,” he said.

Sam was really nervous now.  He slowly undid his seatbelt, then clambered awkwardly into the back seat.  Sat there.  Dean hadn’t moved.  “…Now what?” Sam asked him.

“Take off your clothes,” Dean said.

“Dean-“

“Do it, Sammy.”

Sam slowly unbuttoned his shirt.  His hands were shaking.  He removed his shirt and took off the rest of his clothes, awkward in the cramped space.  Kept his eyes on Dean.  Dean hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned around once.

“I’m done,” Sam said, eventually, tentatively.

He waited, sitting naked in the cool air of the car.

Dean didn’t move.

Sam felt tears rising.  “Dean…are you spanking me _here?_    Is _that_ was this is about?”

Dean didn’t answer.  Didn’t move.

Sam was furious, suddenly.  “Well _get on with it then!”_ he yelled.  “What’re you waiting for?”

Dean finally moved.  He undid his seatbelt.  Got out of the car.  Took off his jacket and laid it down in the front seat.  Undid his flannel shirt and pulled it off.  Laid the shirt on top of his jacket.  Sam watched him, breathing hard. 

Dean closed the Impala’s front door.  Then he opened the back door.  Bent over and peered in, looking down at Sam, who was sitting frozen, staring.

Dean looked at him. 

Then he climbed into the backseat of the Impala, closing the door.  Sat beside Sam.  He didn’t say anything.

“Dean…” Sam said eventually.  “What’re you doing?”

Dean didn’t answer.  He was looking down at his hands.

“You spanking me now?” Sam asked him.

Dean didn’t say anything.  But then he reached out and hauled Sam into his lap.

“-Dean!”

Dean was kissing him, on his face, his throat.  Dean's lips, on his mouth.

“Dean!  What’re you-“

“Stop talkin Sammy,” Dean said.  Then kissing Sam, again.

Sam got his mouth free.  “But what’re you-“

“Shhh,” Dean said.  “I’m not doin anythin to you but this.”  And then he was kissing him, stroking his hands over Sam’s bare skin.

Sam was still anxious.  He’d settled onto Dean’s lap.  But he was nervous that at any moment, Dean would order him to get out the hairbrush (Sam had been spanked in the backseat, before.  It was cramped, but doable.  And the hairbrush was in his knapsack, which was on the floor of the backseat, right beside them). 

Dean was kissing his throat, lips nibbling at the tender skin.  Sam closed his eyes at the sensation.  He was hard now, in spite of himself.  Dean’s fingers were lightly circling his nipples.

Sam’s breath, speeding up.   His head rolled back.  Dean stroked one hand down his belly and wrapped it around his cock.  Pulled on Sam’s cock, lightly.  He kept his other hand on Sam’s nipple, light fingers teasing.

Sam’s mouth was open.  Dean’s fingers on his sensitive flesh, pulling on him, brushing him delicately, Dean’s lips on his throat.  Sam arched his back.  Moaned. 

“My sweet baby,” Dean whispered.  His lips, against Sam’s ear.  He was jerking Sam off, now.  “My sweet baby boy.  You mine, Sammy?”

“All yours,” Sam whispered back.  He was sad at this suddenly.  At these words, which he’d said so easily.

But then he arched his cock up into Dean’s hand.  Raised his mouth for kisses.

“You’re so hot,” Dean muttered.  Kissing Sam's open mouth.  “It’s amazin.  I love it when you get like this Sammy.”

“You make me hot,” Sam whispered against Dean's mouth.  Dean’s fingers, pulling on him.  Sam dying, here.  “Oh god,” he gasped.  “Dean…harder…”

Dean stopped.

_“Dean!”_

“Lay down Sammy,” Dean said to him.  He was breathing hard now too, Sam could hear it in his voice.  “Lie on your back.”

Sam lay down on the cool vinyl seat.  He bent his knees up, spread them.

“That’s it.”  Dean was pulling his t-shirt up over his head.  Sam looked up at his brother’s strong body, bared to the waist, a silhouette in the dark.  He caught a glimpse of Dean’s eyes, a dim flash.  And then Dean was curved over him, drawing Sam’s cock into his mouth.

“Oh _god,”_ Sam was shuddering.  Dean’s mouth on him, working him, relentless.  Sam moaned again.  Then he came, helplessly, spilling into Dean’s mouth, crying out. 

Dean’s hands were on Sam’s hips, urging him to turn over.  “Up on your knees, Sammy,” he said.

Sam turned and got up onto his knees.  He was conscious of his butt, thrust up close under Dean’s face.  Then Dean’s hot mouth on his asshole, licking it, biting it.  One hand came up between Sam’s legs, grabbing the base of his balls, pulling hard on his balls like a handle.  Sam was writhing.

Dean’s fingers were in his asshole, deep in, pressing on the deep hidden gland.  Sam was moaning again, loudly, without embarrassment, his whole awareness now centred around that blazing spot of pleasure, deep in his ass.  Dean leaned over his back.  Sam could hear his brother’s breath, shuddering in his ear.

“Sammy…I goin to fuck you now,” Dean said.  Sam heard him unzipping himself.  “It’s gonna be tight, I don’t have any lube.  But I’ll be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Felt Dean start to enter him, slowly.

Ow.

Dean was gasping.  “You okay, Sammy?” he asked.  Kept pushing in.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Tears were in his eyes.  “I’m okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” Dean said.  Kept pushing.  “I’m nearly there.”

“Really?” Sam said.  “I couldn’t tell.”  Dean laughed, breathlessly.

And then he was all the way in, his cock buried deep.  “Ohmigod Dean, that’s fuckin tight,” Sam said.

“I know,” Dean said.  “You okay, Sammy?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Just super.”

A breath of laughter.  “I’m gonna start fuckin you now,” Dean said.  “Hold on tight, Sammy.”

“To _what?”_ Sam said, through his teeth.  He was balanced on his _hands,_ thank you very much.  Hold on to what and _with_ what?

Dean had grasped his hips.  “Hold on to _yourself,_ honeyboy,” he murmured.  “Cause here we go.”

And then Dean was fucking him, bucking into him strongly, riding Sam’s ass, his cock jabbing deep.  Without lube his cock rubbed up inside Sam with a kind of tight, rough friction, uncomfortable and yet still with a pleasure, building.

Sam was shivering.  That pleasure, building in him, almost irritating, like an itch.  And then suddenly,

“Omigod!  _Omigod!_ Dean!  _Fuck!”_

“That good Sammy?”  Dean’s voice was ragged.  His cock, pounding.

“Oh!  _Oh!”_   Sam’s ass was tilted up, pushing back against Dean’s cock.  Dean’s hand came up, grabbed a handful of Sam’s hair.  Yanked his head back.  Sam gasped.

“How’s that Sammy?” Dean asked him roughly.  He was thrusting into Sam’s ass, hard.  “You like me ridin you?”

Sam was beyond words.  He was trembling, moaning, his ass convulsing around Dean’s cock.

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean whispered.  He shuddered, then came, letting go of Sam’s hair, his arms coming to wrap tightly around Sam’s chest.  Sam felt the warm fluids, spurting into his ass.  And then he let himself fall, collapsing face down onto the Impala’s backseat, Dean falling with him, the two of them collapsing together in one gasping, sweaty heap.

Dean was heavy.

Sam endured him for awhile, then jabbed an elbow upwards, connecting with…something obviously, because Dean made a sound of discomfort and shifted his weight.

Slightly.

“Dean…” Sam said, eventually.  “You gotta get up _now.”_

Dean moved.  He separated from Sam, pulling out of him gingerly.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry Sammy.”  Dean was shifting around, pulling his jeans back up.   Sam stayed where he was, his face pillowed on his arms. 

Then Dean lay down carefully beside him.  Threw an arm and leg over Sam’s body.

“Mmph,” Sam said.

“That okay?” Dean asked him. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said.

“I’m not too heavy?”

“No.”

Dean was quiet.  He’d put his face into Sam’s hair.  Sam’s eyes were closed.  He was okay, lying here.

Maybe him and Dean…they could just lie here forever. 

Just this moment, never ending.

Then Dean’s voice.

“It always comes back to this, huh Sammy?”

“What do you mean?” Sam said quietly.

“This,” Dean said.  “This thing, between us.  The way we are together.”  His voice was thoughtful.  “We always come back to this.  Here.  Nothing else matters.”

_This_

“Yeah,” Sam said, eventually.  “So what’s your point?”

Dean laughed softly.  “My point…I guess…is that…this is it, for me.   This is what we are.  This is the only thing that matters.”

The only thing.

Dean.  The sun in Sam’s life, from the beginning of time.

His brother.

“I love you,” Dean whispered into Sam’s hair.

And now like this.

_(I love you)_

There was a pain around Sam’s heart, like a vice, squeezing.  But he wasn’t going to pay attention to that.  “God Dean,” he said.  “You just figured that out, _now?”_  

“…No,” Dean said, after a moment.  “I guess I always knew.”  Sam snorted.

Dean kissed the nape of Sam’s neck.  “Don’t judge me,” he said.  “Not everyone’s as smart as you.”

“Well for sure _you_ aren’t,” Sam said.

Dean smacked him on his butt.  “Don’t get mouthy,” he said.

“Sorry,” Sam was quiet.  A cold chill ran through him, suddenly.  He shivered.  He loved Dean too.  But it was hard.

Then he felt Dean’s arms tighten around him, in response to Sam, shivering.  Holding Sam closer.  His brother didn’t even notice he was doing that, Sam thought. 

Holding Sam like that.  That holding, without thought, _behind_ thought, like breathing.

And for Sam, to be held like that. 

Understanding that.

They stayed like that a little while longer.  Then Dean sighed, sat up.  “We better roll, Sammy,” he said.  “Dad’s waitin.”

Sam got dressed, without saying anything.

Pulling into the abandoned gas station. 

Dean had called ahead, letting their dad know they’d be there soon.  But the lot was empty, a bleak expanse of cracked pavement in front of a dark, empty shell of a building, every window smashed out.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asked.

“He’ll show,” Dean said.  “He’ll want to make sure it’s us first.”

Sure enough, their dad ambled around the side of the ruined building.  Walked towards them, his hands in his pockets. 

Dean got out of the car.  “Hey Dad,” he said.   

“Son,” their dad answered.  “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry.”

Sam was out of the car too.  He went hesitantly to stand beside Dean.

Their dad glanced at him briefly, his eyes cold.  Then looked back at Dean.  “He give you any more trouble?” he asked.

“No,” Dean said.  “Sammy was good.”

Their dad didn’t acknowledge this.  “The other car’s parked behind,” their dad said.  “I’ll drive it around, we’ll transfer our stuff, then wipe it for prints.  Then we’ll get goin.  But first, you’ll take care of _him.”_   He stared at Sam.  “Hood of the Impala’ll do.  And you’re usin your belt.  No sissy spankins this time.  You’re too soft on him, Dean, I’ve told you that before.  And this is what you get for it.”

Sam was shaking.  Dean hadn’t whipped him with his belt in over two years.  And he’d promised Sam he wouldn’t.  Was he going to break _another_ promise to Sam today, like it was nothing?

Dean didn’t say anything.

“Go on,” his dad said.  “Time’s passin.”

Sam felt that cold cloud descend over him again.  He stared bleakly ahead, seeing nothing.  It was just a beating, like he’d had plenty of times.  _(But Dean’s promise)._   But what did that matter, at this point?   He’d survive.  This wouldn’t break him.  No.

Then Dean spoke. 

“No,” he said.

Their dad.  “What?”

“I said no,” Dean said.  “I’m not doin it.”

Their dad was quiet.  Then said, slowly, “Dean…your brother _deserves_ a beatin for this.  His behaviour put the whole family at risk and you know it.  And _he_ knows it.  He’s goin to be ridin the rest of the way to Bobby’s on a goddamn _raw_ ass ‘n’ that’s all there is to it.”

Dean said nothing.

Their dad looked at him.  Then said, “You’re not up to gettin the job done?  Fine.  I will then.” 

He turned to Sam.  “Sam, go bend over the hood of the car.”

Sam looked at Dean.  His brother didn’t look back at him.  The hope Sam felt blooming in his chest, a powerful hope, rising up the minute Dean had spoken _(Dean, keeping his promise after all)_ …faded, leaving only bleak emptiness behind. 

Dean was keeping his promise, sure.  Thanks a lot. 

Sam was eyeing their dad now.  He could make a run for it.  But their dad wouldn’t hesitate to chase Sam down and tie him down and beat him, tied down like that.  He’d threatened to, before, and Sam knew he meant it.  And would Dean step in to stop it?  Sam didn’t know _._

_(And could he bear it, if that happened, if their dad did that to him and Dean didn’t stop it, could they go on from that, could Sam go on from that, living)_

And Sam wouldn’t hold still, not for another beating from their dad.  He’d kill him, first.  That was a promise _he’d_ made to himself, long ago, and he hadn’t forgotten.  He felt that killing rage, like a hot black tide, rising up inside of him.  An old friend.

Their dad couldn’t catch him.  Or someone was dying tonight. 

Tension coiled up in Sam’s body, that coiled runner’s pause, before a sprint.

Once he ran, he ran for good.  No going back.  Their family would end, tonight. 

But then, Dean.

Sam felt an expression of terrible grief, twisting over his face.

Dean holding him.

_(This is it, for me)_

Dean holding Sam in the dark car, his lips in Sam’s hair. 

_(The only thing that matters)_

Sam, in Dean’s arms.

_(It always comes back to this)_

The two of them, skin to skin, in the dark.

_(I love you)_

Sam couldn’t do it. 

Their dad.  “Sam.  You deaf?  Get yourself over there.”

Sam turned woodenly towards the car.

“No,” Dean said.

Sam paused.  Stared at his brother.

 _“Sam…”_ their dad said, through his teeth.  “You’ve got a _beatin_ comin ‘n’ you’re takin it.  _Get over there now!”_

Sam turned back towards the car, shaking.  But then Dean put an arm around his shoulders.  “No,” he said.  He looked at their dad.  “No one’s beatin Sammy tonight.  Or ever again.”

“…What are you sayin to me, Dean?” their dad asked him.

“I’m sayin exactly what you’re hearin,” Dean replied quietly.  “Sammy doesn’t get beat anymore.  Not by you, not by me.  It’s over.”

Sam was crying.  Dean’s arm, around his shoulders.

“That’s a recipe for disaster,” their dad said.

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “But I don’t care.”

Their dad stepped forward.  Dean tensed.  His other arm, the one not holding Sam, edged backwards, towards his gun.  Their dad stopped, watching Dean carefully.

“You’re makin a mistake son,” their dad said. 

“I don’t think so,” Dean said.

“You stop punishin him, he’ll run circles around you,” their dad said.  “Even more than he does already.”

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “But I’m not punishin him anymore, anyway.”

“You’re just lettin him get away with what he did then.” their dad said.  “Makin trouble for us.  Disrespectin us.”

“Sammy didn’t get away with _anythin_ , Dad,” Dean said.  “He was pulled out of school with no notice at all for what, the second time this year?  And it’s happened now how many times to him?  And how many times did _he_ get an apology _,_ for that?  How many times has he had any… _respect_ , for that, his whole life gettin turned upside down, again and again, on a dime?  And he just…keeps on goin, Dad, he just keeps on goin, gettin those awesome grades, trainin, doin whatever we ask of him…what kind of trouble has he really _made_ for us, Dad, if you count the trouble we’ve made for him?  Not so much, that I c’n see.  You never give him enough credit.”

Sam was crying.  He hated crying in front of their dad, but he couldn’t seem to stop.  He turned his face into Dean’s shoulder, crying.  Dean’s arm tightened around him.

“So you’ll what, let him cry, like a sissy?” their dad said.  “Let him guilt you into avoidin a well deserved beatin…What good’s _that_ going to do him, Dean, in the long run?”

“...Sammy’s not a sissy,” Dean said coldly, after a moment.  “Don’t call him that.  That’s unfair Dad, and you know it.”

“…Well what would _you_ call him then?” their dad said.

“Your son,” Dean said.  “And my brother.  And that’s good enough.  It’s gonna have to be, Dad, okay?”  Dean’s voice shook suddenly.   Sam closed his eyes.  Dean hated this, he knew.  Hated being at odds with their dad.  But he was doing this now.  For Sam.  Sam opened his eyes.  He’d stopped crying.  He stood quietly under Dean’s arm.  Stared at their dad.

Their dad looked back at him.  Then looked at Dean.  His eyes, which had been hard with anger, weren’t, anymore.  He looked tired.

“Forget what happened today,” Dean continued.  “’Sammy’s more important than that.  You gotta see that, Dad.  He’s more important than any hunt.”

Their dad looked at him.  Then he sighed.  “A hunter can’t afford to think that way, Dean.  Otherwise…we’re _all_ at risk.  We live by different rules, son.  I thought you understood that.  I’ve tried to teach you that.  Both you _and_ Sam.”

“I understand what you’ve taught real well,” Dean said.  “And so does Sammy.  And he doesn’t need any more beatins to learn it.”

Their dad was quiet.  Eventually said, “I can’t get through to you, can I?  Not about this.”

“No.”

Their dad gazed at Dean levelly.  Then said, “You ‘n’ me…we’re in disagreement.  Big surprise there.  Any differences we’ve had…it’s _always_ over your brother.”

Dean was silent.  Stood with his arm around Sam.

Their dad was silent too.

Sam looked at both of them, standing motionless in the dark, like stone statues of themselves. 

Then their dad said, “I’m bringin the car around.  You boys help me load.”

Sam felt Dean relax (Dean had been holding himself tight as wire, Sam realized, ready to spring for his gun).  “Sure Dad,” Dean said.

Their dad turned and walked away, disappearing around the dark shell of the gas station.  Sam and Dean watched him go.

Then Sam put his arms around Dean’s waist.  Leaned his face into Dean’s chest.  “Thanks Dean,” he whispered.  He was crying again. 

Dean squeezed him.  “You don’t have to thank me, Sammy,” he said.  He sounded tired.

“Did you really mean it?” Sam asked him.  “You’re not punishin me, anymore?”

“Nope,” Dean said.

“…Not spankin me?” Sam asked.

“Nope,” Dean said again.  “We’re done with that, Sammy.”

“Wow,” Sam said.  He couldn’t remember a time when Dean _hadn’t_ spanked him. 

“What’s _that_ goin to look like?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” Dean said.  “Hopefully you won’t be drivin me crazier than you already do.  Although…I don’t think that’s possible, anyway.”

Sam laughed.  He felt light suddenly, lighter than air.  He threw his arms around Dean and kissed him.

Dean jumped back.  “Shit Sammy, Dad’s comin back any _second!”_ he hissed.  And sure enough, the stolen car appeared, circling around the gas station and stopping beside the Impala.

Their dad got out, popped the trunk.  “Hurry up you two, we don’t have all night,” he grumbled.  Dean and Sam went to help him.

Later, in the Impala, on the dark highway again.  Their dad driving, Dean sitting shotgun beside him.  Sam in the backseat, head tilted back, tired as hell.  Felt his knapsack, nudging against his feet.

He bent to move it out of the way.  Then stopped.

Sam opened his knapsack.  Hunted around inside it until he found the cold, smooth handle of the wooden hairbrush.  He pulled it out, looked at it.  Then rolled down his window.  A blast of air rushed in.  Dean and their dad glanced around.

“Sam, shut the window, Jesus,” their dad said. 

“Sure, Dad, just a moment,” Sam said.  He tossed the hairbrush out the window, the dark night swallowing it immediately.  Then rolled the window back up.  Dean was still looking at him.  Sam met his eyes.  He grinned.

Dean, looking at him.  Then he grinned back, reluctantly.  “I’m gonna _get_ you,” he mouthed silently, to Sam.

Sam smiled back _(that_ smile, yeah).  Let one hand come up to rest casually on his cock.  Dean’s expression changed at this. 

Sam, smiling.

Then he sighed sleepily, and made a point of snuggling back luxuriously in his seat.  Closed his eyes, conscious of Dean’s eyes, still fixed on him.

It was going to be a long drive to Bobby’s.


	31. Chapter 31

_Not_ spanking Sammy.

It was…nerve wracking.

It made Dean uncomfortable (although Sammy was thrilled).

Their dad had said that Dean was making a mistake, not punishing Sammy anymore (and he’d made his opinion _crystal_ clear, although he never brought it up again, not after that night at the gas station).

And Dean couldn’t decide whether their dad was right or wrong.  He was never able to rest easy in his mind, about that.

Discipline.  It had always been a given in their family, that if you crossed the line, you were in for it, no ifs, ands or buts.

And Dean had never had a problem with that, either taking what was coming or dishing it out.

Because hunters lived hard.

And the monsters they hunted, they were hard enemies.

And if you started thinking that the rules didn’t _apply_ to you…that you were _special_ in some way, that things didn’t _need_ to be so harsh and you should get a free pass, well, that was soft thinking. 

And soft got you killed.

Discipline had gotten Dean this far.  And their dad.  And Sammy too, to be fair.  They’d _all_ lived soft, at one point (with their mom).  And look where _that_ had gotten them.

But…if Dean was to be honest with himself here, it wasn’t working anymore.  On Sammy, that is.  It had stopped working awhile back probably, but Dean hadn’t figured that out immediately (he _wasn’t_ as smart as Sammy okay…sometimes things took him longer).

Punishing Sammy.  Spanking him.  Maybe that had stopped working…as a real discipline…as soon as Dean’s feelings for Sammy had changed.  As soon as he couldn’t honestly say to himself that he was just Sammy’s big brother.  Looking out for him.  Raising him right (and like their dad expected). 

Doing it for Sammy’s own good.

Oh sure, it _worked._   As a means of shutting Sammy up and getting him to do what he was told with no more backtalk, nothing beat the threat (or burning, humiliating memory) of a red, sore ass.  It was the most direct, efficient means of getting the message across (their dad had taught Dean that…painfully and effectively).

But after he and Sammy had crossed that _other_ line, into this dark, delicious world of _(incest)_ kissing and cuddling and fucking and…everything unnatural (though with Sammy it felt _so_ natural) could Dean honestly say that it was all for Sammy’s own good?

What exactly was the message?

Spanking Sammy.  It kept him in line (and Dean _liked_ that, no argument there).  And Dean had felt pretty noble (for awhile) about not whipping Sammy with his belt anymore.  No longer dealing out that harsh punishment required by their dad, that Dean remembered as part of his own raising, woven into the fabric of his own growing up like a screaming bright red thread.

Spanking Sammy had seemed like a reasonable, relatively humane solution by comparison.  A reasonable means of keeping things in order.  Disciplined.  In line.

Except that Sammy wasn’t _about_ order. 

Sammy was...chaos.

And by taking his brother like he had, breaking that eternal, invisible vacuum seal between the natural and unnatural bonds of family…Dean had entered into chaos.  The dark territory of Sammy’s body. 

And then Dean, trying to _control_ that.  To control Sammy, his whereabouts, his every move, his _thoughts_ even, reminding Sammy, turned up over Dean’s knee, rosy little butt wriggling, just _what_ he should be paying attention to and _who._

Not really working.

Even though Sammy, to give him credit, had been trying to make it work.  He’d been _pretending_ it was working, for him, this whole obedience thing.  Letting Dean _think_ he’d taken charge, that, somehow, Dean had successfully imposed a new kind of order on Sammy once they’d become more to each other than just brothers, once they’d become everything to each other, completing each other in this new way which wasn’t supposed to happen.

Sammy, playing the good little wife.  Doing what he was told or getting spanked (and thanking Dean, after).

Dean had liked that, alright.  He’d _needed_ that, from Sammy (and Sammy knew it).

Problem was, it just a game for Sammy, playing that.  Oh, he was good at it, sure _(so sweet)_ , and playing that part was important to him too (because it was important to Dean), but it wasn’t really him.

He could step away from it.

And Dean wasn’t disciplining Sammy for his own good.  Not anymore.  That was just Dean’s mind game with _himself,_ that was just _Dean,_ being a douche.  And Sammy had known that, but he’d played along (because he loved Dean, Dean knew), and also because…he’d _promised_ to play the game.  He’d wanted Dean too (to come to him, to cross that line…he’d begged Dean for it), and Dean had his terms.  He’d disciplined Sammy all his life, _he_ was the big brother, the one in charge, and that wasn’t about to change.  He’d be with Sammy…but Sammy would obey him.  Or take the consequences.  Dean had made that clear and Sammy had agreed.  So fair was fair.

So Dean, spanking him, as agreed.

But not to _teach_ Sammy, not really, not anymore.  To control him, that’s what the spankings were _really_ all about.  To keep Sammy _(sweet)_ where Dean wanted him.  His own sweet little brother-wife.

And Sammy had played along.

But that was the problem.  Playing that role might have been a game for Sammy.  But it hadn’t been, for Dean. 

And when the game didn’t suit Sammy, anymore, when he stepped away from it…where did that leave Dean?

Nowhere.

Dean, in control.  Taking charge of this new thing, this new way of being (in love) with Sammy, for both of them.

What a laugh.  Being with Sammy like that…controlling that…it was like trying to control a hurricane.

Truth was, Dean would take Sammy on any terms he could get him.  Die for Sammy in a heartbeat.  Do anything for him.  Lay down and let Sammy walk over him like a rug. 

Sammy could stop playing the game.  Dean saw that now.  And if he did…it didn’t matter _what_ Dean did.  The harder he clamped down, the harsher he punished…the farther Sammy would distance himself, opening a black void of agony in Dean’s life.  Leaving Dean there, alone, helplessly spinning.

Sammy, gazing at Dean over a chasm of icy politeness, eyes distant.    

_(What’s the matter Dean?  You got what you wanted.)_

Not even really seeing Dean, anymore.

That wasn’t going to happen. 

Not while Dean was still breathing.

But there was no control here.  Dean understood that now, he wasn’t an idiot.

And Dean understood something else now, too.  He was deeply screwed.  Because he had no illusions about his brother, either.

Sammy was…he was everything, to Dean, sure.  But he could also be a cruel bitch.  And a little smart ass. 

And the finest glass of whiskey in the world.

And Sammy knew it.

And now that he wasn’t scared of getting spanked anymore, it was like Dean had handed Sammy the keys to his own private Sammy-arsenal and said “Go ahead and play with _all_ your toys.  Try ‘em out for size…on me.”

Sammy’s mouth.  His Sammy brain.  His lithe, silky-hot Sammy body, wrapped around Dean.  His tight little ass.  His puppy dog eyes.  His floppy hair, that Dean would rub his face in.  His dark as night voice.  His Sammy cock, hard for Dean.  God.

It was all incredibly…nerve wracking.

Sammy and Dean, curled up together on the bed, just finished with a marathon fucking session, Sammy on his knees then on his back then on his knees again, moaning, keening, bucking back against Dean’s cock, Dean slamming into him, one hand clutched deep in Sammy’s hair, pulling Sammy’s head back, Dean’s lips on Sammy’s throat.  Finally, collapsed together, still joined, covered in sweat, exhausted.

Dean stroking Sammy’s warm skin.  Murmuring.  “How you doin?”

Sammy’s voice, lazy.  “Good.”

Dean, stroking him.  “What you thinkin about?”

Sammy’s voice, so lazy.  “You.”

“Oh yeah?”  Dean heard the pleasure in his own voice.

“Yeah.”

“What about me?”  Dean asked (and he was _so_ pathetic for asking and he knew it…but he still did it, anyway).

“That you’re the most awesome big brother in the world,” Sammy said sweetly.

“Uh _huh_ …” Dean said (that had sounded a little _too_ sweet).  “…sounds like you’re workin up to something.”

“What makes you think that?” Sammy asked him, still sweet.

“Instinct,” Dean answered dryly.  But then he put his face in Sammy’s hair.  Kissed the nape of his neck.  Listened to Sammy breathing, softly.

“So what is it?” Dean asked eventually.

“Hallowe’en dance is coming up,” Sammy said.  “And-“

“-No,” Dean said immediately.

“Dean, c’mon, you didn’t let me finish,” Sammy said.

Dean sighed.  Then he pulled himself carefully out of Sammy and turned onto his back.   Looped an arm over the top of Sammy’s head, felt that silky head nestle against his side.  Dean closed his eyes.  “I don’t need to,” he said.  “You’re not goin.  And anyway…you hate Hallowe’en.  Remember?”

“Dean, c’mon, the whole _school_ is goin,” Sammy said.  “It’s gonna be a costume party.  And a kid in my class invited me to his house before the dance.  A bunch of us are gonna meet there, get dressed in our costumes, then go to the dance together.” 

Dean controlled the immediate fury that had rushed into him, listening to this.  He could be reasonable.  “Who’s the kid?” he asked mildly.

“Ryan, you don’t know him,” Sammy said.  “He’s got a couple of classes with me.”

“How come I’ve never seen him?” Dean asked.

Sammy snorted.  “Because you’re not at _school_ anymore Dean, and I never hang out with anyone anywhere else.”

Dean didn’t like being reminded of all the hours Sammy was spending now, with people other than him.  “How come you’ve never said anything about him before?” he asked grumpily.

“Because…I didn’t think you’d be _interested,_ Dean, god.  He’s just somebody I hang out at lunch with.”

“You should tell me who you’re hangin with Sammy, give me a chance to check them out,” Dean said.

“Dean, he’s in grade _ten,_ c’mon.  There’s nothing to check out,” Sammy said.

“I don’t care, Sammy, you start gettin buddy-buddy with someone, I want to know about ‘em,” Dean said in a hard voice.  “Understand?”

Sammy said nothing for a moment.  Dean waited tensely.  Were they going to have a fight, and if so, what would he do?  (His first impulse was to put Sammy over his knee).

But then Sammy got up and levered himself over Dean so that he was straddling him, his knees on either side of Dean’s hips.  He leaned over, his face hovering over Dean’s.

Dean looked up at him.  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Ryan,” Sammy said softly.  He was looking deep into Dean’s eyes, like he was saying something important.  “John.”

Dean was confused.  “Who?”

Sammy smiled at him.  Then leaned forward and kissed him.  “Aaron,” he whispered.

“Sammy, what’re you-“

Sammy kissed him again.  “Kelly,” he said.  “Michelle.”  Kissed him.

Dean had had enough.  He grabbed a hank of Sammy’s hair, pulling him back from dropping another kiss.  “What the fuck are you _doing,_ Sammy?”

Sammy blinked at him innocently.  “Those’re the kids who want me to come to the dance with them,” he said.  “I’ve been hanging out with them at lunch.”

“Since when?” Dean asked him.

“A while,” Sammy said.  “They invited me to sit with them, soon after we got here.”  He was smiling.

Dean looked at him.  Sammy, so pleased with himself, hanging out with a group of kids from his class.  Dean had never seen him do that, he realized.  Sammy had always saved his lunch hours for Dean, for the most part, or eaten by himself or maybe once in awhile with one other kid (nerdy, like him).  He wasn’t a social type.  Dean had never really thought about it, always figured Sammy preferred it that way.

Sammy leaned over.  Brushed his lips back and forth over Dean’s mouth.  “Come meet 'em if you're so concerned,” he said.  “Come by at lunch.”  Those silky lips, brushing him.

Dean felt his eyelids fluttering shut, helplessly.  Jesus.  “Won’t that look weird?” he asked vaguely.

Sammy, kissing him.  “Probably,” he whispered.  “But so what?  I don’t care – not if it means you’ll let me go to the dance.”  He slipped his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

Dean was starting to lose his focus here.  _Why_ had he been so set against Sammy going to the dance?

“Hallowe’en’s a tricky night,” he mumbled.  “It’s better you not be out wanderin around that night Sammy, you _know_ that.  If Dad had his way, everyone would just stay home on Hallowe’en.”

“Dance is on a Friday night,” Sammy murmured.   He’d laid himself down on top of Dean’s stretched out body, nestling his cock into Dean’s crotch.  He was hard again, Dean noticed.  “Day before Hallowe’en.  I’ll be fine.  And on Saturday night – I’ll be here…all tucked up in bed…waiting for you…” his tongue was in Dean’s mouth again.

Dean’s mouth had opened.  That hot, curling little tongue, Jesus.

“What’s your costume gonna be?” he asked, unthinking.  Felt Sammy smile, against his mouth.

“Nothin special,” he said casually.  “Maybe I’ll go as Mulder.”

Dean smiled.  Sammy would look adorable in a suit.  “Sounds good,” he said.  Then sighed.

“So that means I c’n go?” Sammy asked him. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I guess it does.”  Then, “Ooof!”  Sammy had collapsed heavily on him, hugging him.  “Thanks Dean!” he said.

“Only if you’re good between now and then,” Dean said, not wanting to seem like he’d given in _too_ easily (yeah right…he was putty).

Sammy kissing him again.  “Oh yeah,” he said.  “I’ll be real good.”  Put his tongue into Dean’s ear.  “A real good boy,” he whispered, sending an immediate rush of blood to Dean’s groin.  And then his cock, rubbing against Dean’s.  He started to thrust against Dean, gently.  Dean was hard again, aching.  Sam bent his head, fastened his lips around one of Dean’s nipples.  Sucked back, hard.  Dean gasped, arching up on the bed.  Sam’s tongue swirled around him.  He bit down.

“Sammy…” Dean gasping.  “God, c’n you- ”

“Shh, Dean, lemme do the other one.”  Sam’s mouth was on his other nipple, sucking it, biting on it.  His hand had found Dean’s cock.  He rubbed the tip roughly with his thumb.  “Where’s the lube?” Sam asked him.

“I think it’s on the floor,” Dean said.

“Stay there.”  Sam put his head over the side of the bed, hunted around.  Surfaced again, the bottle of lube in his hand.  He was smiling.

Dean looked up at him.  His slender muscled brother with that tousled mop of dark hair, those sharply angled brows and cheekbones, that thin, mobile mouth, those large, long lashed eyes, a golden colour right now, twinkling at him.  Sam was beautiful.

“I don’t want you goin to that dance,” Dean said.

Sam smiled at him.  “Oh, I’m goin,” he said.  “You already said I could, remember?  And I’ll be good, you’ll see.”  He squirted the lube generously onto Dean’s parts.  Put his hand there, strong fingers slickly rubbing.

Dean groaned.  “Sammy…I’m kinda sore.”

Sam was kissing him again.  “It’ll be okay.  I wanna jerk us both off.”  His hand was on his own cock now, slicking himself up.  “You just lie there.  Okay?”  His cock was nestled against Dean’s cock again, a hard, hot length.

Dean raised his head, looking down at this.  Sam reached up, pushed back against his forehead, gently.  “No, just lie there,” he said.

Dean lay back.  “Bossy,” he muttered.

“Yep,” Sam sounded cheerful.  “That’s me.”  And then he was thrusting suddenly, thrusting against Dean _hard,_ the way they used to do before they’d started fucking, their cocks slickly rubbing together, Sam’s hand on Dean’s cock, working it too, working up a delicious friction, the pleasure starting to spiral through Dean, taking him over.

Sam leaning over him, balanced over Dean on strong, slender arms, his mouth lowering, finding Dean’s mouth, slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  His cock, his fingers, working Dean’s cock relentlessly, wringing the pleasure out of him.

Dean finally giving himself up to this, lifting his mouth up to Sam’s mouth, shuddering, moaning, coming finally, feeling Sam coming, Sam’s hot come spurting against him, Sam trembling, and then sealing his mouth tightly over Dean’s, thrusting against him a final time.

Sam.  Sammy.  The weight of him, pressing Dean down.  The feel of him, his scent, the sound of him.  His dusky Sammy taste.

Nothing compared to this.  Nothing else came close, not in this life.

Sammy was lying against Dean’s side, an arm and leg thrown over Dean’s body, his head tucked under Dean’s chin.  Dean stroked his back.

“You don’t come home from the dance by yourself,” Dean said.  “Not if it’s late.  I’ll pick you up.”

“Sure,” Sammy said.  “We’re goin back to Ryan’s house after anyways, get changed again.  Maybe watch a horror movie.”

“Sounds like you got it all planned out,” Dean said dryly.

“Yeah,” Sammy said cheerfully.  “So you c’n pick me up from Ryan’s.  Unless you let me sleep over?”  He peered up at Dean hopefully.

Dean smiled at this.  “No,” he said firmly.  “You got the dance out of me, be happy with that.  I’ll pick you up from your friend’s.”

Sammy had put his head back under Dean’s chin.  “Y’know Dean, that’ll be real late,” he said.

“I understand,” Dean said.  “That’s why I’m pickin you up.”

“But Dean…” Sammy said.  “I c’n walk home…when _you_ were fifteen you were goin all over the place by yourself, Dad was okay with it.  And I’m a good fighter, better than practically anythin out there, _you_ know that.  There’s no reason to have to pick me up.  I’ll be fine.”

Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “No, Sammy.”

“But-“

“No,” Dean said.  _“I’ll_ be the one to say when you’re ready to just go around by yourself and until then, subject closed.”

“But-“

Dean sighed.  “But nothin,” he said. 

“But Dean, c’mon-“

Dean sighed again.  Sammy would have never gone on like this, before.  He grasped Sammy’s arms, shook him gently.  “That’s enough,” he said.  “When I say subject closed, it’s _closed._   You know better ‘n’ that.  So shut up now.”

They were both quiet.

Then Sammy asked, “…So what’re you gonna do?”

Dean looked at him.  Sammy was watching him, curiously.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I mean…if I don’t shut up…what’re you gonna do?”  Sammy asked.

Dean looked at him.

Then Sammy smiled.  Very sweetly.

Dean considered this.  Then he grabbed Sammy’s wrists, pinning his hands over his head.  Rolled on top of him, trapping Sammy underneath his body.  Started tickling Sammy's ribs and armpits, mercilessly. 

Sammy was shrieking, bouncing on the bed.  “Dean!  Fuck!  Stop it!”

“Nope,” Dean said.  He was tickling Sammy intently.  “You asked what I was gonna do, Curious George.  So here it is.”

“Dean- “ Sammy was gasping, tears running from the corners of his eyes.  “I’m gonna piss myself.  Stop.”

“You ready to shut up now and be good?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah…“

“Okay then.”  Dean stopped tickling him. 

Sammy was breathing hard.  “God you’re a bully,” he grumped.

Dean was cheerful now.  “Yup,” he agreed.

Sammy pushed at him.  “Get off me, you’re heavy.”

Dean rolled off him, putting his arm over Sammy’s head again.  He was conscious of both of them lying there, their sweaty, sharp smelling, sticky selves.

“We’re a mess,” he said.  “You want to share a shower?”

“Sure,” Sammy said.  But he didn’t move.

Then said,

“Dean, when am I gonna be able to fuck you?”

Dean was stunned.  _“What?”_

“Fuck you,” Sammy said matter-of-factly.  “When’re you gonna let me?”

“What…brought _that_ on?” Dean asked. 

“Well…we’ve done everythin else,” Sam said.  “That’s the last thing.  Don’t you want to try it?”

Dean felt himself turning red.  He remembered the last time that subject came up (Carl, that trucker he’d conned, his hard mouth on Dean’s lips, his hands cupping Dean’s ass, Dean moaning, kissing Carl’s throat).  He shifted, uncomfortably.

“I dunno, Sammy,” he answered.  “I never really thought about it.”

Sam stroked his hand down Dean’s belly, laid it lightly over his cock again.  “Well _I’ve_ thought about it,” he said.  “I want to.  When c’n we do it?”

Sammy had been thinking about fucking him?  Dean’s lips parted.  Then he sealed them shut.  Took a deep breath.

“Boy,” he said, trying to joke.  “Makin all these plans with your friends ‘n’ _then_ checkin with me…sayin you’re too badass to need a ride…and  _now_ askin to fuck your big brother…what’s this Sammy?  You think you’re grown up now?”

Sam tilted his head up.  He looked at Dean levelly.  Dean blinked.  Sam wasn’t using the puppy dog eyes this time.  “Grown up enough,” he said.  “So what d’you say Dean?  I think it’s about time for _all_ those things.”

Dean looked at him, wordless.

Sam looked back.  Then said, “Or are you scared?”

Dean didn’t like that.  “Tell you what,” he said.  “You beat me in a fair fight, no sucker punches, no tricks, you beat me and get me down, _that’s_ when you c’n start goin out on your own, without askin permission first.  Or if Dad says you’re ready to go huntin with us, either way.  I’ll trust his judgement on that.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change.  “You didn’t answer my original question,” he said.  “When do I fuck you?”

Dean looked at him.

“Dean?”

Dean couldn’t speak for a moment.  He watched Sam, those hazel eyes gazing back at him calmly.  Then said, slowly, “Same deal, Sammy.  When… _if_ you get me down, in a fair fight, no relyin on those bitches’ tricks you’re so good at.  If you c’n do that, you’re ready to fuck me.  Until then, don’t even think about it.  Until then, you’re _my_ bitch.  Got it?”

Sam gazed at him silently.  Then smiled.  “Okay Dean.  Sounds fair.”  He ducked his head under Dean’s chin again.  Kissed his throat.  Dean closed his eyes at the feel of Sammy’s lips on his skin.  “You wanna go shower now?” Sammy murmured against his skin.

“Okay,” Dean muttered.  Sammy’s hair, tickling him.

“You want me to soap you off?” Sammy whispered.  “Clean you off…just usin my tongue…”

“…Jesus Sammy, where’d _that_ come from?” Dean asked him.

“I’m still your bitch, right?” Sammy whispered.  “I’ll lick you…however you want…”  Kissing Dean’s throat.

Dean grabbed his hair, tilted Sammy’s face up to his.  Kissed him, deeply. 

“…You want me on my knees?”  Sammy murmured to him, pulling his mouth away for a moment.  “In front of you…lickin your balls…”

“God Sammy, you’ve got such a mouth on you,” Dean said.  He was kissing Sammy again, that smooth, supple mouth.  “You’re so lucky I’m not spankin you anymore.”

Sammy laughed. 

It took them awhile to get to the shower.

Dean _did_ drop by, one day at lunch (he couldn’t help himself).  Let himself in to Sammy’s school cafeteria, conscious of the loud, crowded room turning into one universal stare.  Strolled up to Sammy’s table.  “Heya Sam.”

Sammy glared at him.  He was sitting in the middle of a group of kids, a mix of boys and girls his age, all staring at Dean, transfixed.  Sammy was beet red.  “Hey Dean,” he muttered.

Dean grinned at him.  “Aren’t you gonna introduce me?” he asked casually.

Sammy gestured awkwardly to the kids around him.  “This is Ryan, this is John,” he said.  “That’s Aaron.  Over here’s Geoff.  And that’s Kelly and Michelle and Carla.  This here’s my brother Dean.”

“Pleasure to meet y’all,” Dean drawled.  He was enjoying this.  He turned his special smile on the girls.  Saw them all swallow at once.  “So I hear you’re all goin to some Hallowe’en school dance,” he said to the group.  “Takin my little brother with you.”

 _“Dean,”_ Sammy hissed.  “Shuddup.”

Dean shrugged.  “Well that’s what you said,” he said.  “Wasn’t it Sammy?  You were goin with a group of kids in your class?”

One of the girls giggled.  _“Sammy?”_ she said.

Sammy glared at her.  Then back at Dean.  If possible, he had turned more red.  “It’s _Sam,”_ he said.  “And yeah, I’m goin with them.  We’re all goin to Ryan’s after school and then to the dance, together.”

“Who’s Ryan, again?” Dean asked casually.  His eyes flicked to the tall, weedy blonde kid who was sitting next to Sammy.  Ryan raised his hand, tentatively.  Dean relaxed.  The kid looked about as threatening as a glass of water.  “Your parents gonna be home, Ryan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ryan said.

“That’s good,” Dean said.  He nodded at Ryan, man to man.  “I never let Sammy go anywhere without checkin there’s proper supervision, and he knows that, dontcha Sammy?  So I appreciate you tellin me that Ryan, thanks.”

Ryan nodded, dazzled.

“Dean,” Sammy said desperately.  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not yet,” Dean answered cheerfully.  “So what’s everyone goin as?  Anythin interestin?”

“I’m goin as Catwoman,” the girl named Carla spoke up.  “You know – like in Batman Returns.”  She smiled at Dean.  “The latex Catwoman,” she added. 

Dean looked at her.  “What grade you in again?” he asked.  Carla smiled.  “Same grade as Sam,” she said.  “But I’m _sixteen._   Just turned, last week.”  She smiled at Dean, again.

Dean nodded.  “Uh huh.”  He shot a glance at Sammy.  Sammy was looking down at the table like he wanted to dive underneath it.  “Well I’m sure you’ll work that costume just great,” he said to Carla, smiling.  She blushed.  He turned back to the others.  “And how bout the rest of y’all?”

They answered.  Dean chatted them up, laughing, kidding with them, paying special attention to the three girls, who were cooing and twittering.  He was enjoying himself.  _Sammy_ was mortified, Dean noticed.  He grinned at his brother.

Then the dark haired boy sitting on the other side of Sammy spoke up.  He hadn’t said anything until this point.  “I’m going as a redneck,” he said.  Aaron, Dean remembered his name was.  Dean glanced at him casually, then looked back.  Aaron was staring at him coldly.  He was a broad shouldered, strongly built boy with the look of a jock, with a thick head of dark hair, a strong, blunt featured face, and a pair of light blue eyes, startling under sharp black brows.  He was wearing a powder blue golf shirt with a tiny _alligator_  embroidered on it.  Uh huh.  One of those.  Next to him, Sammy looked slender, almost delicate, like a gazelle next to a water buffalo.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.  Why was Aaron leaning so close to Sammy like that?

“Oh yeah?” Dean asked him, politely.  “Guess you’ll have to go shoppin then.  Don’t imagine that dudes who wear _baby blue_ would have any… _redneck_ shirts handy.  Try the army surplus store.  You know what an army surplus store is, don’t you?”

Aaron smiled at him nastily.  “Sure I do,” he said.  “My dad used to be Special Forces.  But maybe I could just borrow something from you.  _You_ must have plenty of that kind of stuff.  Would you mind?”

Dean glanced at Sammy.  He was white.  He turned back to Aaron, that little punk.  “Not at all,” he said, pleasantly.  “I’m happy to help out a…friend of Sammy’s.  Meet me behind the bleachers at four p.m. this afternoon and I’ll…lend you anythin you want.”  Looked at Aaron.  He let his cover drop for a moment, staring the little shit down with hunter’s eyes.

Aaron blinked.  “…No man,” he said after a moment.  “I was just jokin.  I don’t need anything.”

Dean was smiling.  “Well, okay,” he said affably.  “You let me know if you change your mind.”  He flicked his eyes over the rest of the table.  The kids were silent, staring at him.

Sammy stood up.  “Dean, there’s a teacher comin over,” he said.  “C’mon, it’s time to go.  I’ll walk you out.”

“Alright Sammy,” Dean said.  He let Sammy start to lead him away.  “Nice to meet y’all,” he said to the rest of the group, smiling at them.  He winked at Aaron, who swallowed.

“Dean, c’mon,” Sammy hissed.  He practically dragged Dean out of the cafeteria, into the empty hallway. “What was that all about?” Sammy snapped at him.  They were walking rapidly towards the exit.

“I should ask you that,” Dean snapped back at him.  “Who was that little smart ass punk?  You never told me about _him.”_

“Who?” Sammy said.  “You mean Aaron?  He’s just one of that group I’ve been hangin with and I did _so_ tell you about him, remember?”

“You told me his _name,_ not that he's got a hard-on for you,” Dean said. 

“...He _doesn’t_ Dean, god, why’re you readin _that_ into things?” Sammy said.  They were at the exit now.  “He’s got a girlfriend.  You met her.  Michelle.”

“Whatever,” Dean said.  “I’ve changed my mind, anyway.  You’re not goin.”

“What!”

“Between latex girl and hard-on boy, I just don’t think that’s the right crowd for you, Sammy,” Dean said.  “So forget it.”

Sammy was staring at him.  “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I’m dead serious,” Dean said.

“I can’t believe this,” Sammy said.  His voice was shaking.  “First you completely and utterly embarrass me in front of kids I happen to like – who actually like _me,_ for a change…and then you…go back on your _promise?_   I HATE YOU!”

“Sammy…”

“You’re the most SELFISH SONOFABITCH _EVER!”_   Sammy yelled at him at the top of his lungs.  Heads popped out of doors, people staring.  A middle aged man started walking rapidly down the hall towards them.

“Sammy…” Dean started to reach out to Sammy then stopped.  Sammy was staring at him with hatred, his face pale.  Tears were standing on his cheeks. 

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sammy said in a low voice.  “I’ll see you later.”  He turned on his heel and stomped off, wiping a hand across his face.

Dean stared after him helplessly.  Then left, feeling about two feet tall.

So Sammy ended up going to the dance after all.

Dean (after deep and serious consideration) changed his mind (okay, gave in), and told Sammy he could go.  He even threw in an apology, for embarrassing Sammy in front of his friends.  Sammy forgave him, rapturously (and very enjoyably).  And it turned out anyways, that Dean’s little visit hadn’t been such a disaster, after all.  No one had known about Sam’s movie star handsome big brother at _this_ school, and apparently Sam’s stock with _all_ the highschool girls had risen considerably (and within about an hour of Dean’s visit), with even the chicks in grades eleven and twelve knowing Sam’s name now, and saying hi to him in the halls.  Sammy was even more solid with his new friends, guys and girls. 

So Sammy was happy.  Things had worked out.

The morning of the dance, Sammy was up before Dean, who was still lying in bed, drowsy after spending most of the night out with their dad.  Sammy leaned over him and kissed him.  “Bye Dean.  I’ll see you tonight okay?  I’ll call when I’m ready to be picked up.”

“Sure Sammy,” Dean mumbled.  “But keep your cell phone on, okay?”

“I will,” Sammy said.  “But I might not be able to hear it if the music’s loud, so don’t freak out if I don’t answer right away, okay?  I’ll call you as soon as I see your message.”

Dean opened his eyes, looked up at his brother.  Sammy was smiling.  He looked happy.  Dean smiled sleepily at him.  “Sure baby,” he said.  “You have a good time.  Where’s your costume?”

“In my knapsack,” Sammy said (he’d bought himself an old suit from the Salvation Army, a boy’s suit, a five dollar special, slightly too tight and short on him, with a worn white dress shirt and striped tie thrown in for an extra buck.  He’d modelled it for Dean the evening before, both of them hooting with laughter and then Dean, marching Sammy over to their room’s shabby desk and bending him over, dragging those suit pants down and fucking Sammy over that desk, enjoying the sight of Sammy’s tight round butt peeking out from under the tails of that white shirt and dark grey jacket, Dean so incredibly turned on.

“You be good now,” Dean said, smiling.  “Don’t make me sorry I changed my mind.”

“I will, Dean,” Sammy said.  He kissed Dean again.  “And I won’t, don’t worry.”

Dean put his mouth up for another kiss and Sammy kissed him obligingly.  “Mmm,” Dean said.  He was tempted to grab Sammy and pull him down for some extra cuddling.  Sammy probably sensed this because he straightened up and frowned at Dean warningly.  Dean grinned at him.   “Don’t do anythin _I_ wouldn’t do,” he said, teasing.

Sammy looked at him.  Then he grinned.  “I won’t,” he said.  And then he was out the door.  Dean went back to sleep, smiling.

Later, kicking back at the motel room, a beer in his hand.  He and his dad finished up for the day (a long, tedious, incredibly frustrating day, with him and his dad finally calling it quits).  They’d eaten at a diner, then headed back to the motel, his dad disappearing into his room with a grunt, no doubt hitting the Dewars as soon as the door slammed shut behind him.  Dean looked at the clock.  Eight thirty.  The school dance would be underway by now.  Sammy would have arrived, with the rest of his posse.  Sammy had said he'd call Dean to pick him up around one a.m., from his friend's house.  Doing a late night.  Little social butterfly.  Dean smiled, then flopped back on the bed, hands behind his head.  Took a nap.

Woke up, looked at the clock.  Nine forty-five.  Sammy said the dance would be over at eleven.  Dean stared idly up at the ceiling, thinking about the school dances he’d been to.  There hadn’t been that many.  And they’d been pretty lame, overall, from what he could recall.  Bunch of dweebs bopping in the school gym to the latest top forty, with the main action outside, _away_ from the gym, in someone’s parked car, basement or under the bleachers. 

Kids sharing a toke or a mickey of booze, occasionally something more hard core.  Making out on someone’s couch or in the backseat of a car.  Dean had had his share of opportunities to participate in…whatever, but he'd never been that interested, other than occasionally fooling around with one of the hotter girls just for the hell of it, or to piss off said girl’s douche boyfriend.  A little taste of the highschool life on his way home to Sammy.

Sammy.  Dean sat up suddenly.  _Sammy_ wouldn’t do anything like that…would he?  Dean had specifically told him not to fool around like that.

Hadn't he?

Dean thought about this.  What had he said to Sammy, this morning?

_(Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do)_

Shit.

 _That’s_ what he had said?

Sammy knew _exactly_ the kind of stuff Dean would or wouldn’t do (at school, that is).  They’d talked it through, part of Dean’s strategy for pulling the wool over their dad’s eyes, playing up his rep as a bad boy/girl magnet (not that it took much effort).  And then Dean, saying that to Sammy so casually, this morning while he was half asleep.  Would Sammy take him literally?

He might.

Shit shit shit. 

Dean thought about Sammy, making out with some chick in the backseat of a car.  Sharing a toke.  Following Dean’s example.

Would he?

He might.  Sammy just might decide to be a little bitch and take Dean’s words literally.

And he’d looked so _(damn hot)_ cute in that suit.  Catnip for that little Catwoman slut.  And any other chick out there (not to mention sketchy dudes like _Aaron)_. 

Dean thought about this.  Was he ready for Sammy to _really_ stop being a nerd?

Nope.  He wasn’t. 

Dean picked up his cellphone.  He’d call Sammy, check on him.  Take the opportunity to clarify himself.  A school dance and dress up party with some buddies under the eye of teachers and parents was one thing.  Making out with some latex wearing sex kitten in a parked car was another.  And Sammy should know better anyway, but still.  Just as insurance.

Dean dialed out.  His call went straight to voicemail.  Dean looked at it.  That was odd.  Sammy had said he might not _hear_ the call right away, but it should still ring, right?

Dean tried again.  And again.  And again.

He was upset now.  Looked at the clock.  Five after ten. 

To hell with it.

He was going over there, check the scene out personally.  And if Sammy was mad at him for showing up, well, that was on him, for having his cellphone off.  He should know better than that.

Dean drove grimly over to the school.  He called Sammy’s phone five times on the way.  Still voicemail.

Dean was fuming by the time he pulled into the school parking lot.  Jumped out of the Impala, walked rapidly towards the front doors.  Eyeballed the parked cars and the several kids hanging around, smoking, their shoulders hunched against the cold night wind.  He didn’t recognize anyone, or see Sammy.  Well, that was something, at least.

Dean walked down the empty school halls towards the gym.  Heard the music pounding.  His heart was beating rapidly.  He wasn't going to lose it with Sammy, not in front of his friends.  But him and Sammy were going to have a talk.  It wasn’t _fair_ of Sammy, to put Dean through this, especially after Dean had been so accommodating.

Dean opened the gym doors, immediately encountering a blast of hot air, accompanied by a blast of Britney Spears.  Ugh.  He scanned the gym, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.  The place was packed, a crowd of kids in costumes jumping around.  He craned his neck, looking for Sammy.

A teacher approached him.  “May I help you?”

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean said absently, his eyes on the crowd.  “Sam Winchester’s brother, in grade ten.  I’m here to pick him up.  You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Um no, I haven’t,” the teacher said.  “But it’s hard to recognize the kids in their costumes anyway.  I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.  You’re welcome to look for him.  Do you know what he’s wearing?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, barely hearing this, other than that the teacher hadn’t seen Sammy.

“Check with me on your way out,” the teacher said.

“Sure,” Dean said.  He was gone, plunging into the crowd, looking for a slender, floppy haired boy in a tight, dark suit.

He couldn’t see Sammy anywhere.  Dean circled the crowd, panic starting to rise in his belly.  Should he go out to the parking lot again?  But it had been practically deserted.  Would Sammy be back behind the gym?  But it was wicked cold, why would he be there?  Should he check the rest of the school?  He didn’t know this school, wasn’t familiar with its nooks and crannies.  If Sammy was holed up somewhere, he’d be hard to spot, especially if he didn’t want to be found.  Like…if he was doing something he knew would make Dean freak out.  Shit.

Well, he’d ask one of the kids Sammy’d come with, they’d know.  Where the hell were they?  Dean scanned the crowd.  It was so dark and dense he was having trouble picking out anybody.  Well, he knew _one_ costume that’d be standing out.  Catwoman.  Dean started to look for her.

A new song was on.  Slow number.  Savage Garden.  Gag.  Dean hated listening to this top forty stuff, although Sammy liked it, he’d play it in the car sometimes, when it was his turn to pick the tunes, both Dean and their dad sighing.

The kids had separated into small groups, twosomes, and a few groups with more than two, their arms around each other, swaying to that treacly dreck.  There was more space on the floor now, easier to see.  Dean started scanning for Catwoman.

Spotted her, her ass covered in shiny black latex, turned mostly away from him, part of a tight clump of kids at the far end of the room, a fetish special alright, how’d that girl’s parents allow her to go out _looking_ like that?  Her arms were around the shoulders of two other kids, rubbed tight up against them, part of a group of five, everyone with their arms around each other, swaying.  Dean saw a glimpse of her face, turned up under the flashing strobe lights, smiling.  She had one arm around a slender, tallish girl who Dean didn’t recognize, wearing a white shirt knotted at the waist and a tiny short kilt, with long bare legs ending in dark knee socks and mannish looking dress shoes.  Her hair was in short little pigtails with bows.  Hey mom, can I go as _jailbait_ for Hallowe’en?  Classy.  Between latex girl and kilt girl, the two of them had pretty much covered the underage perv spectrum.  Dean flicked an absent glance at those legs and that little ass, barely covered by that tiny skirt.  Not a bad view, better than Catwoman.  And on the other side of kilt girl, the burly figure of Aaron, wearing fatigues, combat boots and a khaki army t-shirt, that pretentious dick.  He had his arm around kilt girl’s shoulders and her arm was around his waist.  And then Dean spotted the blonde head of Ryan, on the other side of the group, facing him.  The chump was dressed as Dracula, with a cape and fangs, grinning like a fool.  The whole group was swaying to the music, bumping hips, having a grand old time.  But no Sammy.  Dean felt panic, rising.

Where the fuck was his brother?

Well, he’d ask.  He started to make his way over.  Then stopped, staring.

That girl – the one in the kilt.  That white shirt with the collar.  That was _Sam’s_ shirt, the one Dean had taken off him, yesterday (“Be careful with that Dean!” Sam’s laughing voice.  “Don’t pop the buttons, Jesus.”)

But this wasn’t right.

He’d been looking for a slender, brown haired boy, in a suit.  Mulder.  Not some pigtailed private schoolgirl dressed for her own porn movie.

Kilt girl, with those gleaming mile long legs, that little butt swaying, her slim arms around the waists of Carla the latex girl and Aaron the army douche, _their_ arms draped cozily around her shoulders.  As Dean watched, Aaron leaned in, put his head close to those pigtails, saying something.

Dean stared, frozen.

That was Sam.


	32. Chapter 32

Sam was smiling.

He was sitting at the kitchen table at Ryan’s house, a glass of Coke in front of him.  Across from him, John and Geoff, from his history class, who’d invited him to eat lunch with them, the day after Sam had arrived at this school, about three weeks into the start of the school year (his dad had never considered Sam starting school on the day you were _supposed_ to start school to be that important - Sam had experienced a traditional first day of school maybe twice). 

John had called out to him as Sam walked past them in the school cafeteria, on his way to eat lunch by himself.

“Hey…Sam.  Right?”

“…Yeah?”

“Come siddown with us!”  Both John and Geoff were smiling.  They were good looking, jock-type boys (not spectacular like Dean, but then who was?), both fit and well built, wearing clothes that _hadn’t_ been purchased at the army surplus store.  Not the kind of kids who usually sought Sam out…he generally became friendly with quieter, studious kids like Tom ( _nerds,_ as per Dean), whenever he had the opportunity that is, when Dean wasn’t taking up his time and attention. 

Sam looked at the two of them, undecided.  He didn’t hang with the popular crowd, as a rule. 

For one thing, Dean detested those kids – sneered at their nice houses, designer clothes and cars purchased in _this_ decade, and acted like a total asshole towards the girls (it was a game with Dean – taking up with the hottest girl in school, often with a boyfriend already, creating all this drama, and then dropping her cold as ice…and maybe leaving the boyfriend lying on the pavement with a bloody nose).  So as a species, the popular kids hadn’t been a natural group for Sam to hang with (and by the time Dean was finished with them, they generally treated Sam like he was radioactive, anyway).

And also…Sam was pretty clear on how Dean wanted him to act, in school.

Sam was supposed to keep to himself.

To reserve his time for Dean (when his brother was around that is), or maybe hang out (on a fairly _irregular_ basis) with someone who didn’t tweak Dean’s radar (too much), like Tom.

But preferably, just to keep to himself.

And it had been easier for Sam to just…do that.

And not just because Dean wanted it.

Sam wasn’t a loner –at least, he didn’t think so.  He liked people, generally.  But he _wasn’t_ your average kid.  Didn’t have much in common with… _anybody_ (other than Dean).

It wasn’t just the hunting (the big family secret).  It was also the endless moving around, Sam never knowing where he’d be week to week.  And their family’s relative poverty – Dean and him always dressed kind of shabby, their family living on a shoestring, no money for anything extra (except for hunting stuff of course, and Dewars…), no school trips or camps or sports (Sam’s one season of soccer an exception – and he’d had to fight for that, with Dean weighing in on his side, at the last minute) until Dean started working with their dad (and then Sam finally getting new clothes…from Walmart, sure – Dean liked Walmart for some reason – but still new clothes, and that was something).  And kids picked up on things like no money –especially privileged kids. 

So, professional secrecy, practical circumstances and economic disparity…there was a gap between Sam and Dean and other kids their age, a gap that was hard to bridge, even if you were motivated to (and _Dean_ sure wasn’t, and he didn’t think Sam should be, either).

And then there was Sam’s brain.  That set him apart too.

Sam had figured out early on that had he had more capacity, in terms of pure brainpower, than practically everyone around him (including most adults, with the possible exception of Bobby).  But he’d learned to be discreet about it.  People didn’t appreciate having their relative intellectual inferiority rubbed in their faces (his dad had been pretty clear about that) as a rule.  Be smart about being smart, _that_ had been his dad’s message (and Dean’s too) – communicated through Sam’s _ass_ mainly, via a spanking or a whipping, on more occasions than Sam could count.

So Sam had learned caution. 

He’d learned to glide through his classes, giving them his partial attention…not _not_ participating (he’d speak up when asked, and do all the assignments and tests and stuff of course), but not trying to distinguish himself or demand any special consideration for being…pretty much light years ahead of everybody else (but he still pulled in atmospheric grades –which didn’t exactly endear him to the general student population).   And when he _did_ speak up (which wasn’t that often), he made a point of dumbing down his vocabulary and style of delivery (although sometimes he forgot and then the teachers and other kids would stare).

But being cautious like that, not speaking too much, not _sharing_ his thoughts (except in a considered, Cole’s Notes fashion) with anyone (except Dean that is… _Dean_ liked to hear Sam go on, sometimes, relaxing with a beer in his hand, listening to Sam riff about whatever was on his mind – the latest nugget gleaned from his library explorations for example – Dean thought Sam was cute, going on like that…until he’d had enough and then he’d tell Sam to shut up, or start kissing him). 

So being cautious about himself...as a strategy…guarding his words, not sharing ninety percent of what was going on in his head with the rest of the world – how was that not isolating?

And then of course, there was Dean.

Dean was the main thing.

If you were going to take a look at what _really_ separated Sam from the general adolescent population of the U.S. of A., well, being with _Dean_ was like taking a one way trip, all expenses paid, to North Korea, population two.

Dean had always been super protective (which was okay – Sam had never been bullied or picked on – Dean always made a point of establishing a healthy circle of fear around Sam early on, whenever they started a new school – until Sam had finally told Dean he could stand up for himself, thank you very much).  But having everyone scared of your big brother didn’t exactly encourage friendships.

But after they had…after Sam wasn’t just Dean’s brother anymore, after he’d become everything to Dean _( raised for that, Sam saying to Dean in anger all that time ago/not thinking about that),_ _protective_ didn’t really cover Dean’s attitude towards him. 

Not anymore.  Not by half.

Dean was fuckin jealous.

Of everything and everyone that had to do with Sam, _including_ Sam himself, sometimes…if Sam actually started thinking about something _other_ than him and Dean, that is (and Dean with his hunter’s instincts always picking up on stuff like that right away).

Jealous of Sam’s time.  Jealous of his interests (once they passed the point of being cute).  Jealous of any kid, of course, who was brave or clueless enough to cross the line of Dean and be Sam’s friend (not that there’d been many). 

And as for anyone who might be… _interested_ in Sam…Dean was, shall we say, _not_ pleased about Sam attracting that kind of attention and not above giving Sam a hard time about it either, even though _he_ didn’t have a leg to stand on, complaining about stuff like that, given the way _he_ was with girls (and they were with him), and the attention he got from guys too (although Sam wasn’t about to touch that one – Dean was way too sensitive about it).

But Sam had no problem pointing out to Dean when he was being a jealous douche ( _especially_ as Sam made a point of not giving Dean a hard time about the girls and…such).  And Dean _recognized_ when he was a jealous douche too (Dean understood he could be unreasonable - he wasn’t stupid, he was just…Dean). 

But managing that (so that he and Dean didn’t kill each other every day) was a lot of work (exhausting, actually), and it did tend to make it hard for Sam to connect with other kids his age.

And that was just the _manageable_ jealousy.

If Dean ever thought _Sam_ liked someone else…if he got suspicious that _Sam_ might have the slightest interest in anybody…

Forget about it. 

Some things couldn’t be managed.  You just didn’t go there.

So given all that…it was better for Sam to just keep to himself.  To limit himself, in a social sense.  Avoid potential complications.

It was just easier.

And Dean was happiest with that, after all.

Sam, looking at John and Geoff, smiling up at him, waiting for him to sit down.  “No thanks,” he said.  He turned to go.

“What?” John wasn’t smiling now.  “Why not?”

“I can’t that’s all,” Sam said awkwardly.  He felt badly.  “I’m sorry.”

“Think you’re too good for us?” Geoff asked him.  He wasn’t smiling anymore, either.

“No,” Sam said.  “But I can’t.  Sorry.”  He walked away.  Sat down at a table by himself, feeling like an asshole.

Ate his lunch. 

Geoff and John continued to sit, a few tables down from him.  Sam glanced at them, covertly.  They were talking and laughing.  Two more kids joined them, a blonde girl and a dark haired boy.  The girl was in Sam’s math and English class – Michelle, he remembered her name was, a pretty, sweet kind of girl.  The boy was her boyfriend, Sam had seen him holding Michelle’s hand in the halls.  Sam didn’t know his name.  Then two more girls sat down, a blonde and a brunette, both of them in Sam’s classes.  Kelly and Carla.  Both cute, Sam had noticed them.  They appeared to be best friends, the joined-at-the-hip, bff kind, Kelly your perky, cheerleader type (the kind Dean would enjoy flirting with), and Carla with a bit of a wild streak to her (she’d had her eye on Sam, he’d noticed, since he’d arrived yesterday).  And then Ryan joined them.  He was a tall, rangy kid who seemed to be the class wiseass, kind of a goof, but Sam could tell he was smart.  He was in four of Sam’s classes.  Sam had noticed him and liked him – if there was anyone he’d seen so far at this school who had potential to be a friend, it was Ryan.  Except that Ryan wasn’t nerdy enough, it appeared now, for Sam.  He was sitting with the popular crowd, obviously one of them.

Oh well.  It looked like Sam would be eating by himself for the foreseeable future, now that Dean had finally retired from (his pretence of) being a high school student. 

Sam sighed, inwardly.  Sometimes this being by himself thing, well, it was like…being by himself.  Without Dean around it was going to be a lonely year.

There was a burst of laughter from Geoff and John’s table.  _“Asshole,”_ Sam heard.  He glanced over, involuntarily.  The whole group was staring at him, like Sam was some sort of freak.  Sam looked down, his cheeks burning.  He heard another round of laughter.

Sam continued to eat his lunch.  His lips were trembling, he noticed. 

He was upset. 

What had just happened had upset him.

And he was super mad at Dean suddenly.

Dean, so jealous of Sam’s attention.  So worried about Sam getting friendly with anyone else (and maybe, god forbid, _liking_ them).  Not seeming to care if Sam spent his days in school alienated from the other kids (because after all, _Dean_ was with him, and who else mattered?).  

Thing was, Dean _wasn’t_ here, not anymore.  Dean was grown up now, and their dad’s full time partner, no longer able to just come and eat lunch with Sam (and check on him) whenever he wanted.

Sam would have to go through the next three years of school by himself.

Sam thought about this prospect, glumly.  He glanced over at the popular kid table again.  Ryan was saying something and they were all leaning forward, listening.  Smiling.

Sam was mad.  This was so unfair.

Why _should_ he always be the freak?

And also…so _what_ if he happened to get interested in someone?  So what?

Sam considered this.  I mean…the only person he’d ever thought about like that, since forever, had been Dean.  For years.  Forever.  Just Dean.

And that suited Dean just fine (of course).

But _Dean_ hadn’t held the same expectations for himself.  And Sam hadn’t held those expectations for Dean either. 

Dean…he’d always had so many opportunities (to fool around) and he’d used them too (to a point) these last couple of years.  He’d told Sam they didn’t mean anything.  And Sam had taken him at his word.  And put up with it.

Dean, with that mysterious girlfriend, the time him and Sam had been separated by their dad, right before Sam turned thirteen (Dean never talked about her, but Sam sensed she’d been important to him, in a different league from the girls that his brother subsequently attracted and swatted away like flies, girls he had _no_ trouble discussing with Sam). 

And then Dean, when he went out pool hustling…Sam had been aware for some time now that Dean playing the bait for those cons was not as…straightforward as he let on, otherwise he wouldn’t come back to Sam on those nights so raw, so upset in a way that Sam _didn’t_ notice about him, on the nights he came home from a hunt.

But Sam never said anything.  Because he was trying to be reasonable.  To be mature, about their weird situation.  And to be _good,_ in the way that Dean wanted from him _(you’re my good little wife, Sammy)._

After all, Dean was years older than Sam–he’d been aware of sex a lot longer than Sam, and he’d been dealing with that kind of attention a lot longer too.  So was it fair of Sam to expect his brother _never_ to have been interested in anyone but him?  After all, that was the _usual_ thing.  It was _Sam,_ here, who was unusual, he recognized that.

And Dean had been clear with Sam, from the start.  He had an interest in girls and he didn’t want to just…give that up.  And he’d been clear too, that no other interest was in any way a threat to Sam  – _Sam_ was in a class by himself. 

So Sam had put up with it.  Kept his promise not to be difficult. 

Not to say it didn’t bother him (it did - understandably, okay?)  But what was the point of fighting with Dean about it ( _that_ never ended well) and driving himself crazy?  Sam believed Dean completely when his brother said that no one, ever, would touch the way he felt about Sam. 

And quite honestly, Sam had come to realize that if someone else occasionally took the edge off that laser focused, obsessive attention he got from Dean all the time…it wasn’t such a bad thing.  It allowed Sam some space to breathe (not that he would ever tell _Dean_ that), and also, something to hold over Dean’s head (just because Dean insisted he wasn’t giving up girls didn’t mean he was _comfortable_ about it – and Sam knew how to work the guilt).

So, point being, Sam had decided to be reasonable.  To play along.

But he never made the mistake of thinking that just because _he_ was reasonable…Dean would be reasonable.

And Dean wasn’t.

Apparently, any interest _Sam_ might possibly have in anyone (other than Dean), even the teeniest, tiniest amount…

Not allowed.  There’d been a period when it seemed to Sam he was getting spanked every _week,_ to remind him how to conduct himself.  To Dean’s psycho jealous standards.

“Ow – _OW !_  Dean, c’mon…please…”  Sam wriggling, the tears starting to fall.

“What did I tell you about not lookin back?”  The hairbrush smacking down, every strike more painful than the last.

Sam gasping.  “I’m _sorry_ Dean, I forgot, okay?  It was no big deal…”

SMACK.

_“OW!”_

_“I’ll_ say when it’s a big deal.”  Dean’s cold voice.  And then the spanking, going on and on.  “…You hear me Sammy?”

“Yeah…” Sam crying now.

“You won’t forget again?” 

_Smack, Smack, Smack…_

“No…”

“Better not.  Cause I’m goin to spank harder next time, if you do.”

And then _still_ spanking him.  And Sam wriggling helplessly now, biting his lip, tears running freely down his face.

But there’d still been a lot of next times.  Because it was _tricky,_ to behave in public in just the way Dean wanted.  It had taken Sam awhile, to determine what would and wouldn’t get him riled.  But eventually he’d figured it out (other than the occasional misunderstanding…always with painful consequences). 

So to be safe, for a long time Sam had tried to avoid even _thinking_ about anyone (other than Dean) in any sort of “interested” way.  He knew Dean was watching him, and he didn’t want any slip ups.  It wasn’t worth it.

And for awhile, he’d even bought into the whole thing.  So that if he returned an admiring glance, or noticed someone (that way) and Dean picked up on it and ordered Sam to get out the hairbrush, Sam would, no argument, and take the spanking and thank Dean after, for correcting him.  And he’d meant it, too.  Once he’d even _confessed_ to Dean.  And the spanking hadn’t gone any easier on him (although Sam had hoped). 

Dean, so jealous like that.  On top of expecting Sam _not_ to be jealous.  But Sam accepted the situation (because he was still with _Dean,_ okay?  I mean, it was worth it…). 

But he’d never felt it was fair.  Not deep down.

And those spankings weren’t working for him anyway.  Not the way Dean wanted.  Sam had started noticing girls after all (especially after they started noticing him).  _And_ he’d thought about guys too, _highly_ in secret of course, more out of curiosity than anything (which was natural right?  I mean, _Dean_ was a guy – and Sam had an insider’s knowledge now, of guy sex, and dude, it was fuckin awesome).

But still, he’d wanted to be good.  To please Dean, to make him happy.  To be what Dean wanted him to be (sweet, silent and obedient).

And if the situation wasn’t fair, well…Sam had asked for Dean and he’d accepted Dean’s terms (to be honest, he’d have taken Dean on _any_ terms, he’d wanted him so badly).

So Sam kept his mouth shut.  Kept his eyes to himself.

And took the spankings, if he slipped up.  Welcomed them, even, for awhile.

But now that Dean had _stopped_ spanking him…

…And now that Dean wasn’t here…

I mean, so if Sam got friendly with other kids…

…so what?

Did that make him such a bad person?

And even if he ended up _liking_ someone (Carla, for example…)

So what?

It’s not like that would change anything, for what he had with Dean.

Just like the way Dean was with others didn’t change anything for what he had with Sam (and Dean expected Sam to _understand_ this, too).

And Sam _did_ understand.  What he and Dean had…it was indestructible, _Sam_ knew that.  And Dean should know it.

So why should Sam be alone for three more years of highschool, _allowing_ himself to be a freak?

No reason.

And anyway, Dean _wasn’t_ here, and what he didn’t know…wouldn’t hurt him.

Sam stood up.

He walked over to John and Geoff and the rest of their group, carrying his lunch tray.  Stood there, looking down at them.  They stared back at him, silently.

“I was being an asshole,” Sam said to John.  “I’m sorry.  I’d really like to sit with you guys.  Can I?”

John looked at him.  Then shrugged.  “Sure,” he said.

Sam sat down.  “I’m Sam,” he said to the group.

Kelly and Carla were looking at him.  “Hi Sam,” they said together, in exactly the same tone.  Then they blinked at each other, surprised.  Smiled self consciously.  Sam smiled back.  “Great stereo effect,” he said.  Ryan laughed.

Sam ate lunch with that group every day, after that.  Hung out with them in home room, and in the halls (although never after school).  But he joked around easily enough with John, Geoff, Ryan and Aaron, who’d all been friends for years.  Became reasonably cordial (I mean, he didn’t _know_ girls, okay…they were kind of intimidating, and Sam was still shy…and also, he felt hopelessly inept around girls in the face of Dean’s playboy standards) with Carla, Kelly and Michelle, who’d also all been best friends forever (and who hung with Aaron’s friends because Michelle and Aaron had been dating since grade seven). 

He found out later that John and Geoff had asked him to sit down that first day because Carla had asked them to, and they’d thought this was funny (Carla never wasted any time, going after fresh meat).  But at that point, Sam didn’t care.  He liked his new friends. 

So now, sitting at Ryan’s kitchen table.  Sam smiling.

John, Geoff and Sam were discussing the relative merits of Lethal Weapon 4.

“No man, it totally rocks,” John said.  “That scene with the guns was awesome.  B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b!”  He stood up, pretending to shoot off a machine gun.

“I thought it was lame,” Geoff said.  “I mean, how many bullets can a professional criminal, who does this for a _living_ right…fire off, _right at_ a guy, and not hit him _once?_ I mean, it’s like Mel Gibson was somehow bullet proof or the guy was blind.  And then _Mel_ fires and boom, the guy goes down.  Totally _not_ believable.  What did you think Sam?”

“I mean, it’s possible,” Sam said.  “The gangster was using an AK 47 and its range is only reliable to nine hundred and eighty four feet.  Mel was at least that distance away and running.  And also, any follow up shots wouldn’t be that accurate because an AK has such a heavy recoil.  And when Mel shot back, he used an M16, which has an accurate range of over eighteen hundred and four feet.”

John and Geoff looked at him.

“Um…okay, Rambo,” Geoff said.

“How d’you know this stuff?” John asked him.

Sam shrugged, smiling awkwardly.  “I dunno,” he said.  “Just picked it up somewhere.  Read about it.”

John grinned at him.  “Kind of a nerd, aren’t you?” he said.  “In a creepy, survivalist way.”

Sam grinned back.  “Guess so,” he said.

Ryan was back in the kitchen, carrying a bottle of white rum.  “Who’s the creep?” he asked.  “Would that be _you,_ Johnny?”

“No, that’s you,” John said.  “You’re the king creep.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Ryan said.  “Glad to know my efforts are appreciated.  Here.”  He poured a shot of rum into Sam’s glass of Coke.  “Compliments of the house.  And you, gentlemen?”  He gestured to John and Geoff.  They pushed their glasses forward.  “Won’t your parents notice?” Sam asked him.

Ryan poured out two more generous shots.  “Nah,” he said.  “And if they do, they’ll just think the other one drank it.  They’re both lushes.  Much like their lovin son.”  He tilted the rum bottle into his mouth, and took a swig.

“Where _are_ your parents?” Sam asked.  He took a cautious sip of his drink.  Not bad.  He’d tried the family Dewars secretly (hated the taste) and beer of course.  But Dean didn’t allow him to drink, said Sam couldn’t until he was legal (which was _so_ ironic, coming from him).  And the one time he’d caught Sam sipping a beer he’d spanked him, _hard._   So Sam _didn’t_ drink, despite living with two drinkers.  Alcohol didn’t have many positive associations, for him.

“Eating out,” Ryan said.  “Friday’s their _date_ night.  They’ll be home around nine or so.  We’ll be gone by then.”

“They’ll be here when Dean comes by to pick me up, right?” Sam asked.  “You told him they would.”

Ryan nodded.  “Oh yeah, they’ll be back by then,” he said.  “I wouldn’t lie to your brother.  He’s too fuckin scary.  But till then, we got the place to ourselves.  Booya!”  He took another swig from the bottle.

Ryan’s sister Megan walked into the kitchen.  She was a year younger than him, in grade nine.  “Drinking that rum again?” she said to him.  “I’m tellin mom.”

“You do ‘n’ I’ll tell her about those cigarettes I found in your room,” Ryan said.  “Who’s gonna be in trouble then?”

Megan glared at him.  But then she took a glass out of the cupboard, brought it over to Ryan.  “Gimme some,” she said.

Ryan poured her a shot.  “That’s my sis,” he said.  “Followin in my footsteps.” 

“Shuddup,” she said.  Sipped from the glass.  “What’s for dinner?”

“I ordered pizza,” Ryan said.  The doorbell rang.  “That must be it.”  He went to open the door.

Megan was staring at Sam.  “Hi,” she said. 

“Hi,” Sam said back.

“You’re in my brother’s class, right?” Megan said.

“Four of them,” Sam said.  He smiled at her.  “I’ve seen you in the halls,” he said.  “I’m Sam.”

“I know,” Megan said.  Then she went red.

“Ooo, Megan’s in love with _Sam,”_ Geoff said. 

Megan glared at him.  “Shuddup, doof,” she said.

“Like the rest of the girls,” John said.  Then added, in a high voice, “Oooo, that new guy is soooo cute!  _Love_ his _hair!”_

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Shuddup,” he said casually.  Then took another sip from his glass.  Not bad.  He took a swallow.

“Why’s your hair so long, anyway?” Geoff asked him (Sam’s hair _was_ kind of long this year – almost to his shoulders). 

“I dunno,” Sam said.  “Haven’t gotten around to cuttin it, I guess.”  (Actually, Dean liked Sam’s hair long…and it always pissed their dad off…two good reasons for growing it out).

“You should put it in a ponytail,” Megan said.  She was staring at Sam.  “Get it out of your eyes.  It would look good like that.”

“Never thought about that,” Sam said to her kindly.  “How’d I do that?”

“With a hair elastic,” Megan said.  “I c’n get you one if you want.”  She looked at him hopefully.

Sam smiled at her.  Took another swallow of his drink.  “Sure,” he said.  Megan left.

Kelly and Carla entered the room, already dressed in their costumes, with Ryan behind them.  “Holy shit!” John said to Carla.  “Lookit you.”

Carla preened.  She was wearing a skin tight bodysuit of shiny black latex and high heeled black boots.   On her head was a black plastic hairband with a pair of kitten ears attached.  Her face was heavily made up and she’d coiled her dark hair into a high tight bun.  Kelly was wearing a yellow Disney Tinkerbell dress with little strap-on wings, her blonde hair up in a ponytail.   Between them they covered the spectrum from G-Rated to X-Rated.

“Where the hell’d you get _that?”_ Geoff asked Carla.

She smiled.  “It’s Lynne’s,” she said.  “One of her clubbing outfits.  She lent it to me.”

“Who’s Lynne?” Sam asked.

Carla grinned at him.  “She’s my crazy cousin, away at college.  She’s great.”

“She’s crazy, that’s for sure,” Geoff said.

“Shuddup doof,” Carla said to him.  “Where’re your costumes, anyway?”

“They’re here,” Geoff said.  “We came directly from school.  We’re changing after we eat.  Where’s Aaron and Michelle?  Aaron’s our ride.”

Kelly frowned.  “Michelle called just before we left,” she said.  “She said they might be late.  She sounded kind of upset.  I’ll call her.  Can I use your phone, Ryan?”

“Sure,” Ryan said.  Kelly picked up the portable phone from the kitchen counter and left the room.

Ryan was pouring out more shots from his bottle.  “For the ladies.”  Carla picked up her glass and downed it.

Megan was back in the room, a hair elastic and hairbrush in her hands.  “Here Sam,” she said.

“What’re you doing?” Carla asked.

“I’m putting Sam’s hair into a ponytail,” Megan said.  “He said I could do it.”

Carla walked up to her and took the brush.  “I’ll do it,” she said.  She held out her hand for the elastic.  Megan handed it to her reluctantly.  “I wanted to,” she said.

“Oooo, fightin over you!” Geoff said to Sam. 

The two girls turned on him.  “Shuddup doof!” they both said at once.  Sam laughed.  Carla smiled at him, then strolled over to stand behind his chair.  She put both hands in his hair and started smoothing it back, her fingers digging in.  “Mmm,” she said.  “Your hair’s like silk, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes had half closed (Carla was rubbing his head almost as good as Dean).  “Thanks,” he said.  Carla was brushing his hair now, the brush bristles tingling against his scalp.  Sam leaned his head back, enjoying this (he should ask Dean to brush his hair).  The back of his head was resting against Carla’s stomach.  “Like that?” Carla asked him.  Sam turned his eyes up at her.  Smiled.  “Yeah.”

She gazed down at him.  Then asked, “Can I braid your hair instead?  It’s long enough.”

Sam shrugged.  Between the rum and Carla’s hands on him he was pretty relaxed.  “Sure,” he said.  “Why not?”  Carla smiled, started to separate his hair into strands, twisting them into a braid.  “God Sam,” she said.  “You’ve got the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen.  It’s so thick and smooth.  I love it.  I want it.”

Geoff watching this.  “That’s not all you want,” he said to Carla.  She made a face at him.  Sam grinned.   Glanced at Geoff.  “You ask me why I grow my hair…” he said.  Geoff didn’t smile back.  Sam looked at him again, surprised.  Was Geoff upset?

Kelly was back in the room, the phone in her hand.  “Guess what!” she said.  “Michelle and Aaron broke up!”

Everyone stared.  Carla froze, her hands twined in Sam’s hair.  “What!” she said.

“Just now!” Kelly said.  “Michelle said Aaron just…walked out!  She was real upset.”

“What happened?”  Carla asked.

“I dunno,” Kelly said.  “She said they were arguing, nothing major, but then he just…broke up with her!  And left!”

“Well is he coming _here?”_ John asked.  “Aaron’s our ride.”

Kelly glared at him.  “That’s sensitive.”

“I’m just sayin…” John said.  He looked at the rest of them appealingly. 

“Does she want us to come over?” Carla asked.  “She’s not still going to the dance is she?”

“No,” Kelly said.  “She said _we_ should still go though, since we’re all dressed already.  We’ll go to her house after.”

“Okay.”

Sam looked at the five of them, all gazing at Kelly, looking worried.  He was starting to feel awkward, sitting there with Carla’s hands in his hair.  “Maybe we’ll do this another time,” he said to her.  Her fingers immediately tightened on him.  “No, I’m half way done, let me finish,” she said.  Started braiding Sam’s hair again.

“What’re you _doin,_ Carla, turnin him into a girl?” Geoff asked her grouchily.

Carla stuck her tongue out at him.  Then turned to Megan.  “Here, can you hold this?  I want to braid in these shorter parts in along the side.”  She gestured to the hank of Sam’s hair in her hand.

Megan came eagerly over.  “Sure.”  Took the hank from Carla, allowing her to have both hands free.

Ryan was shaking his head.  “Gettin complicated.”  He came over, poured more rum into Sam’s glass.  “Here Sam.  Help you get through this.”

Sam picked up the glass, took a healthy swallow.  “Thanks.”  Put the glass down.  Ryan, Geoff and John were staring at him.  Sam had a sudden vision of how he must look to them, sitting there obediently while the two girls fussed over him.  He opened his mouth to say something, but then the doorbell rang.  Ryan left.

“Pizza, finally,” John said.  Ryan’s voice.  “Hey guys, do you have any change on you?  I need somethin for a tip.”

“I do,” Geoff left the room.

Kelly had come over to stand beside Carla and Megan.  “That looks really good,” she said, staring down at Sam’s head.  “I love this French braid bit.”  She put her hand out to touch the hair beside Sam’s ear.  “Careful!” Carla said.  “Let me finish.”  The three girls were all bent over Sam’s head now, fascinated.

“What the _fuck?”_   A new voice.  Sam started to turn his head.  “No, stay still!” Carla said.  Sam froze.

“Oh, hi Aaron.”  Kelly’s voice was unenthused.  “We weren’t sure if you were coming, anymore.”

“I said I’d give you a ride, didn’t I?”  Aaron walked into Sam’s line of sight.  Sat down beside John, looking miserable.  He stared at Sam.  Then his eyes narrowed.  “What the hell?”  Asked Sam, “Why the fuck’re you letting them do _that?”_

Sam was embarrassed, suddenly.  “I dunno,” he said.  “They just wanted to.”

“Sam wanted to try out bein a girl,” Geoff said.  He was back in the room, followed by Ryan, who was carrying a pizza box.

Carla was done.  She walked around the table to face Sam, admiring her handiwork.   “Omigod Sam, you’re so _cute!”_

Ryan set the pizza box down on the table.  Looked at Sam.  His eyes widened.  “God, Sam you look like Carla’s _sister,”_ he said.  “If she was a lesbo.”

Carla punched him.  “Shut up, moron.”

Sam touched his head self consciously.  His hair was folded tightly back against his scalp in sleek strands.  The back of his neck was bare and he could feel cool air against the skin there, an unusual sensation.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

Aaron’s eyes on him.  “It means you look like a friggin fairy,” he said coldly.

Sam stared at him, shocked.  Aaron held his gaze another moment, then looked away.

“Aaron!” Carla said, “Don’t be an asshole!  Just because you ‘n’ Michelle had a fight doesn’t mean you have to take it out on everyone else.  What happened anyway?”

“None of your fuckin business,” Aaron snapped.  “And anyway you’ll get the whole story out of her later – I know she tells you ‘n’ Kelly everythin.  And we didn’t have a fight.  We broke up.”

“Why?” Kelly asked.

Aaron looked down.  “Ask her,” he said quietly.  He looked down at his hands.  The whole group was silent now.  Sam gazed at them, all motionless, all staring at Aaron, concerned.  It occurred to him that there was a story here, among these kids, a whole history from years of growing up together in this place.  A commonality among them that Sam didn’t understand, could never really understand, growing up like _he_ had, set apart from normal life by secrecy and his family.

He felt sad suddenly.  He didn’t know anything about these kids.  And they didn’t know about him.  And it was a safe bet if they _did_ know about him…they wouldn’t get him at all.  Looking at them now was like observing a room through a window, its contents and occupants visible to him but always separate, behind glass.  

Sam always outside.

Sam touched his hair.  Stood up.  “I’m gonna take this out now, okay Carla?”

Carla looked up.  Then she hurried over to him.  “Not yet,” she said.  “Come see yourself first.”  She took Sam’s arm, led him into the front hall.  They halted in front of a mirror.

Sam stared at himself, shocked all over again.

Carla’s sister.  He could see what Ryan was talking about.

Carla had braided his hair in an elaborate style similar to her own hairstyle, drawing it away from his face in two flat braids, curving gracefully back from his temples, into a tight, coiled braid at the crown of his head.  It reminded Sam of the way samurais wore their hair, in the manga comic books that Dean liked and brought home occasionally.  Sam saw his own face suddenly, thrown into sharp relief without the familiar mess of hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes.  Saw his narrow, sensitive face with its high cheekbones, pointed chin and high smooth brow.  The delicate curve of his temples.  Saw the oval shape of his head, set off by the braid, surprisingly pleasing to the eye.  Stared at his wide, weird colour eyes, tilted up under finely arched brows, eyes huge with surprise, long lashed, vulnerable.  His mouth, that fascinated Dean so much, and Sam saw it suddenly, his mouth through Dean’s eyes.  The smooth, finely curved lips, parted slightly.

Carla stood beside him, her own narrow, vivid face, lush with makeup.  “You’re hot, huh Sam?”  She grinned mischievously.  

“Yeah,” Sam said absently.  He was staring at himself, fascinated.

“You _do_ look like my sister,” Carla said, with satisfaction.  “Put makeup on you, you’d make a gorgeous girl.”

_(My little girl)_

Sam heard this suddenly, in his mind.

Dean, whispering this to him. 

Sam closed his eyes briefly.  Then he raised his hands and undid the braid, running his fingers roughly though his hair and tousling it over his forehead and shoulders again.

Carla looked disappointed.  “You were so cute, Sam.  We could see your face, finally.”

“That’s alright,” Sam said.  “Let’s get some pizza.”  He went back to the kitchen, Carla trailing after him.

The rest of the group was seated around the table, eating.  Ryan looked up.  “It’s back,” he said.

Sam sat down, helped himself to a slice.  “When’re we leavin?” he asked.

“In a bit,” Ryan said.  “Kick back s’more first.  Have another drink.”  He picked up the bottle of rum again.  “Aaron?”

 _“No_ moron, I’m driving,” Aaron said grouchily.

Ryan shrugged, held the bottle out to Sam.  “Sam?”

“Sure.”  Ryan tipped another shot into Sam’s glass.  Sam picked up his glass and drained it with the smooth, hit-the-back-of-the-throat motion he’d seen his dad use a thousand times.

Ryan raised his eyebrows.  “You took that like a pro,” he said.

Sam nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  Turned to Aaron.  “When did you get your license?”

Aaron glanced at him briefly.  “Last summer,” he said.

“I’ve been meanin to ask,” Sam said.  “How’d you end up gettin your license so quick?”

Aaron glanced at him again.  “I didn’t get it so quick,” he said sourly.  “I’m a year older than the rest of these morons.  I was sick for most of grades one and two and missed a lot of school.  So I was kept back.  That’s why I’m not in grade eleven.”

“Aaron’s our old man,” Ryan said happily.  _“And_ our wheels.”  He punched Aaron on the shoulder. 

“Fuck off,” Aaron said.

“What made you sick?” Sam asked.

Aaron looked at him.  Sam regretted his question instantly.  “Sorry man, I didn’t mean to-“

“I had cancer,” Aaron said shortly. 

“Oh,” Sam said.  He felt awkward.  A silence fell over the table.  Sam looked at Aaron, munching morosely on his pizza.  Then said, “I know what that’s like, missin a lot of school.  Some years, it felt like I missed more school than not, with my family movin around so much.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s done _you_ any harm,” Aaron said.  He looked at Sam again.  “You’re a friggin brain.”

“Yeah, well…” Sam shrugged, looked away.

Carla had sat down beside Sam.  “When’re you guys getting changed?” she asked.  Looked at Sam.  “I want to see what you’re goin as.”

“I’m going as Dracula,” Ryan said.

Carla rolled her eyes.  “You went as Dracula last year,” she said. 

“So?” Ryan said cheerfully.  “I like Dracula.  _I vant to dreeenk your bloooood…”_

“You’re _such_ a doof,” his sister said.  Ryan made a face at her.

“I’m goin as a zombie,” John said.

“And _I’m_ going as the Joker,” Geoff said, smiling.  He glanced at Carla.

“Good choice,” she said to him snidely.  Geoff glared.  “Just like that slut suit’s a good choice for _you,”_ he snapped.

Carla blinked.  Then she put her arm around Sam.  Leaned against him.  “What about _you,_ Sammy?” she asked him sweetly.  “What’re _you_ goin as?”

Sam swallowed.  Carla’s breast was pressing against his side.  He noticed she was looking at Geoff though.  “I’m goin as Mulder,” he said.

“Who?” Kelly asked.

“Mulder,” Sam said.  “You know, from the X Files.”

“The what?”

“The _X Files_ ,” Ryan said.  “You know, those FBI agents who go after monsters and aliens.  Mulder and that redhead babe.  Scully, mm-mm!  Where you _been,_ Kelly?”

Kelly tossed her head.  “Well, obviously not watching _nerd shows_ like you guys,” she said.

Carla was smiling at Sam.  Leaning on him, a warm soft weight.  “That’s a cool idea,” she said.  “FBI agent.  You carryin a gun, Sam?”

Sam smiled back at her.  They were both a little drunk, he realized.  “No,” he said.  “Decided to leave it at home for tonight.”  Carla laughed.

“You should go as _Scully,_ not Mulder,” Geoff said to Sam.  _“She’s_ the one you look like.”

Sam looked at him, not sure how to reply to this.

Geoff smiled.  “With all that _pretty hair_ ‘n’ all.”

“Don’t say that to _Sammy,_ Geoff, you’ll hurt his _feelins,_ ” Aaron said.  Sam looked at him.  Aaron met his eyes.  “Or maybe not,” he added.

Sam stared at Geoff and Aaron, both gazing at him from across the table.  They were supposed to be joking, he knew.  But it didn’t sound like joking. 

And the way they were looking at him – it was familiar somehow.  And it didn’t make him feel good.

And then he recognized it. 

Recognized that look.

His dad looked at him like that.  All the time, he looked at Sam like that.  Like he wasn’t sure _what_ he was looking at.  And not too pleased about it either. 

His dad’s eyes, on him.

_(What’s the matter with you, Christ, Sam!)_

and

_(Cut your hair, Sammy, you look like a goddamn girl.  Dean, take him to a barber already).  _

and

_(I’ve just about had enough of you and your goddamn feelins!  Always tiptoin around you…Dean, that’s what you get for bein soft on him, you see that now?  A goddamn sissy for a brother)._

Sam was furious suddenly.  He stared at Geoff and Aaron, looking back at him, looking _down_ at him, somehow.  Sam the freak, after all.

Sam considered them coldly.  He could take them.  He could take all of them, easily, these soft, spoiled, suburban kids who thought they were such badasses.  Waste them all, in about ten seconds.  His dad had taught him that, how to be able to do that.  And Dean.

Sam thought about this.  Then snorted.

Yeah, right.  That’s what a hunter would do, alright, go psycho on a bunch of idiot teenagers, just because they were teasing him.  Now _that_ would be a freakshow.

Geoff and Aaron, their eyes on him. 

“Why would I care?” Sam said to them.

They both blinked.  “You don’t care about lookin like a girl?” Aaron asked.

Sam looked at him.  Then still holding Aaron’s gaze, he put his arm around Carla.  Squeezed her tightly, feeling her slim body press against his side.  “Why should I?” he replied.  “Girls rock.”  Aaron’s eyes widened.

“Oh Sam, _I love you!”_ Carla said.  She put her arms around Sam’s waist and kissed him on the cheek.  Sam smiled.  He looked at Geoff.  Then rubbed his cheek against Carla’s lips.

Geoff didn’t look pleased.  “So why don’t you _go_ as a girl then, _Sammy?_   _Carla’ll_ appreciate it.”

“…You mean, to the dance?” Kelly asked.

Geoff smiled.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Why not?”  Looked back at Sam.  “I dare you.”

“Oh my god!”  Carla said.  “That would totally be fun!  We could dress you up Sam!  You could go as my _sister!_ It’d be so _cool!”_   Kelly and Megan were smiling, Sam noticed.  Carla put her head on his shoulder.  Then she patted his knee.

An image flashed through Sam’s mind.  Dean, gently dressing him, after sex.  Patting him, his eyes tender. 

“Um…I dunno,” he said.

Geoff smiled at him.  “What, you chicken?”

“I already have my costume,” Sam said.  “Brought a suit.  I’m goin as Mulder, remember?”

“You could borrow something of mine,” Megan said helpfully. 

Sam looked at her.  “Um- ”

“Oh c’mon Sam, it’ll be so fun!”  Carla said.  “We could put makeup on you ‘n’ everything.  You’d look totally hot.  Remember?”

Sam thought about the two of them, standing side by side in front of the mirror.  His bared, vulnerable face. 

 _(Baby)_  

Dean’s eyes on him.

“I don’t think so,” Sam said.  “I was sort of set on goin as Mulder.”

Carla pouted.  “You’re our chance to play with a real live Ken doll Sam, c’mon.”

Aaron snorted.  “Yeah, turnin him into Barbie.  Bet he’d think _that_ was a real trip.  Huh Sammy?” 

Ryan laughed. 

“I don’t-” Sam started to say, but stopped, suddenly.  He looked at Aaron, watching him.  Watching for Sam’s reaction.

_(Prove to us you’re not a freak)_

That cold, considering gaze, so familiar.

_(It’s my right to ask)_

And Sam, so used to that look.  Used to it from his whole life, growing up with his dad. 

_(Prove it to me)_

Growing up under that harsh, relentless, observant gaze, stopping just short of contempt. 

_(Prove to me I’m wrong)_

And Sam, always required to do this.  A condition of life, to prove his dad wrong.

_(I’ll show you you’ll see.  You’re wrong about me you’ll see.  You’ll love me you’ll see.  You’ll-)_

Yeah, right. 

As if.

Impossible to live, under that cold, withering gaze. 

_(I’ve had it!  There’s somethin wrong with you, Sammy, Jesus!  Dean, take him)._

(And Dean, his arms around Sam.  “C’mere Sammy.  I’ve got you okay?  S’okay.”)

Impossible, except for Dean.

And now that look, again.

Living with it, his whole life.  Dreading it.  Bearing it.  Apologizing for it.

To hell with it.

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Fine.  Sure.”

Everyone stared at him.

“You’ll _do_ it?”  Carla asked him.

Sam shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’ll do it.”

And Aaron, still staring at him, but differently now.

And that look familiar too, Sam realized.

 _(…he’s got a hard on for you)_. 

Dean had said that. 

And Dean, also observant  _(a hunter)._   He might be psycho jealous, sure.  But Sam never made the mistake of thinking Dean was stupid.

“Why not?” Sam said.  He met Aaron’s eyes.  Smiled.  “It’s Hallowe’en, isn’t it?” 

Carla squealed, “Omigod this’ll be great!”

“Yeah,” Sam said, smiling.    

At Aaron, staring at him, silent.

“Make me hot,” Sam said softly.

Aaron, staring at him.

Sam was in Megan’s bathroom, sitting on the lid of the toilet.  He was wearing only his boxer shorts and a tshirt (Carla had insisted).  His bare legs were stretched out, his feet propped up on the rim of the bathtub. 

Carla sat on the floor beside him.  She was shaving his legs.

“I still don’t understand why this is _necessary,”_ Sam said.

“Because you can’t wear a dress with hairy legs,” Carla said.  “That’s so _not_ hot.  They need to be smooth.  See?”  She took Sam’s hand and guided it over his shaven calf.  “Feel that.”

Sam felt the smooth tight skin, gliding under his fingers.  He was wickedly turned on suddenly, blood rushing to his cock.  He shifted uncomfortably.  _(Dean would love his legs like that)._

“When’re you done?” he asked Carla.

“Soon,” she said.  “Let me just get this bit around your knees.  Needs more shaving lotion.”  She squeezed some more foamy stuff onto Sam’s legs.  From a pink can.

“I didn’t know girls used shaving lotion,” Sam said.

Carla looked up, smiled at him briefly.  “You don’t know much about girls do you?” she said.

“No,” Sam said.  “Never really been around any, until I started hangin with you.”

“No sisters or cousins or anything?” Carla asked him.

“No,” Sam said.  “Just Dean.”

“He’s so hot,” Carla said absently.  Then looked at Sam apologetically.  “I’m sorry.  Did I sound like an asshole?”

“No,” Sam said.  “Just like every other girl on the planet.”

Carla smiled.  Then said, “Say Sam…you’re not gay, are you?”

 _“What?”_ Sam asked her.

Carla looked at him.

“Why’d you ask _that?”_ Sam asked.

Carla shrugged.  “I dunno,” she said.  “I guess cause no other guy I know would let me do this.  You’re different.”

“Yeah, I can’t see Geoff lettin you shave his legs,” Sam said.

Carla laughed.  “No.  So are you?” She looked at him again.

“No,” Sam said.  “I don’t think so.  I like girls.”

“Have you ever been with a girl?” Carla asked him.  Her face was bent over Sam’s legs.  She was shaving the side of his thigh.

“Um, no,” Sam said.  He was blushing, uncomfortably.

“What about guys then?  You ever been with a guy?”

“No!” Sam said.  “You kidding?  Dean would kill me,” he added thoughtlessly.

Carla glanced up.  “What?”

“I _mean…_ ” Sam said.  “He totally doesn’t go for that kind of thing.  You know?  And neither does my dad.”

Carla nodded.  “But have you thought about it?  Sounds like you have.”

Sam looked at her, swallowing.  This conversation was getting dangerous.

“Enough about me,” he said.  “What about you?”

Carla looked at him.  Then smiled.  “What’re you asking?” she said.

“Have _you_ been with a guy?” Sam said.

Carla shrugged.  “Yeah.”

“Geoff?”

“No.  Someone else.  Last summer.  You don’t know him.”

“Oh.  And what about a girl?”

“Sam!”

“Well, you asked _me.”_

Carla grinned.  “No.”  Then she glanced at Sam.  “…But…I’ve thought about it.”

“You have?”

“Yeah,” Carla said quietly.  She looked away.

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then replied, “Well…okay then.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay that…that’s cool,” he said awkwardly.  He was blushing, again.  Conscious of himself, half naked, sitting in a stranger’s bathroom with a girl he barely knew, said girl crouched beside him, shaving his legs.  Talking to him about this stuff (that _no one_ talked about, okay?).  Dressed like a model in one of Dean’s porn mags.  Fetish whores, Dean called them.  This was one totally weird situation.

“I guess maybe we’re bi,” Carla said to him.

“What!”

“Bi,” Carla repeated, matter-of-factly.  “You know, when you like girls _and_ guys.”

“…I didn’t say I liked guys,” Sam said.

“Uh huh,” Carla said.  Then, “Can you stand up Sam?  I want to check the back of your legs.”

Sam stood up.  Carla crouched behind him.  Her hand brushed the back of his thigh.  “Not much hair there.  I’m nearly done.”  The razor touched him here and there, Carla putting the finishing touches on him.  “All done.  Let’s put some moisturizer on you.”  Carla picked up a tube of lotion, squeezed some into her palm.  Sam put his hands out.  “I c’n do it.”

“Okay.”  Carla squeezed the lotion into his hand.  Then she wiped her palm on Sam’s calf.  “Feels great,” she said.  She looked at his legs critically.  “You’ve got gorgeous legs Sam.  Like one of those fitness models on TV.”

Sam grinned at this.  (Dean liked those shows).  He rubbed the lotion onto his legs.  Felt the hard muscles, under a layer of satiny skin.

_(Dean would love this)_

Sam’s breath was speeding up again.  “Let’s do the rest of me,” he said.

Carla stared.  “What?”

“The rest of me.”  Sam pulled off his tshirt.  “Girls shave their underarms, don’t they?”

Carla was staring at him.  Sam smiled at her.  He knew he looked good.  He might be slender, but he was layered with hard muscle.

“God Sam,” Carla said.  “Look at you.  Holy shit.”

Sam smiled, reached out his hand for the razor.  Carla handed it to him, dumbly.  He rinsed it out under the sink, then started shaving his underarms. 

Carla, staring at him.  Then she reached out, touched his chest, brushing her fingers over the light, downy hair there.  “You should get those too.”

“Okay.”  Sam shaved off the hair on his chest, and then the line of soft hair on his stomach.  He was grinning now (Dean was going to go _nuts_ for this – Sam wasn’t quite sure how he’d explain it, but figured he’d come up with something...and after all, once he’d finished what he _planned_ to do, with Dean, his brother would be in a forgiving mood).

“See any more?” he asked.

Carla tilted her head.  “Nope.  Unless you’re goin for-“ she gestured vaguely at his crotch.

Sam stared down at himself.  There was a bulge there.  How could Carla _not_ have noticed?  “Um, no.  Not today.”  He glanced up at Carla cautiously.

She was looking back at him rather…shyly, actually, her face red.  The situation had gotten to her too (finally), it seemed.

They looked at each other.  _Awk_ ward. 

Then Sam smiled.  Started laughing (I mean...seriously...this _situation)_.  Carla stared.  Then she started laughing too.  They were both laughing, howling actually, bent over helplessly.

“Sam, you’re friggin _weird,”_ Carla gasped.

“You should talk,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“Hey!”  Kelly’s voice.  “What’re you guys _doing_ in there?”

Carla was wiping carefully under her eyes.  “Omigod, I’m going to ruin my makeup.”  She turned, opened the bathroom door.  “Nothing,” she said.  “We’re done.  You have Sam’s outfit picked out yet?”

Kelly and Megan were standing in the doorway, their eyes on Sam.   “Omigod!”  Kelly said.  Megan was gaping.

“What?”  Ryan’s voice, behind her.  “Sam turned into a girl yet?”

Suddenly all four boys were behind Kelly and Megan, crowding into the open bathroom doorway, staring in.

“What the fuck?” Ryan said.  “Sam, you _naked_ in there?  What’re you _doin_ to him, Carla?”

Sam cringed.  It was one thing to be undressed in front of Carla (who’d become his buddy, somehow), but this was a bit much.

“Guys,” Carla said, “Get lost!  You don’t get to see Sam til we’re done.”

“Too late,” Ryan said.  “We’ve seen _all_ of him…almost.”

“Fuck off,” Sam said.  He was terribly conscious of his erection (although it was fading fast).  He turned slightly away.

“I need another drink,” Ryan said.  “Wipe this scene from my brain.”

“You’ve had enough,” Megan said.

“You’re probably right,” Ryan said.  He turned to go.  “C’mon kids.  Hurry up, okay Carla?  We should get goin.”  He was clattering down the stairs.

“By the time you’re dressed, Sam’ll be ready,” Carla called after him.  “Now get lost,” she said to the others.

Sam glanced quickly at them.  Megan and Kelly were still gazing at him blankly (Sam was familiar with this look _too,_ but not directed at him, always at Dean.  It _was_ rather gratifying, he had to admit).  John was staring at him, smirking.  Geoff looked confused (and not too happy).  And Aaron looked…furious.  He was staring at Sam with death ray eyes (not as extreme as _Dean’s_ death ray eyes of course…but close enough). 

Uh huh.

Sam met his gaze.  He smiled, slightly.  Aaron’s eyes widened.  Then he turned and stomped off, followed by the other boys.

The girls hadn’t noticed this.  Carla was steering Sam towards Megan’s bedroom.  “Let’s get you dressed,” she said.  “Then we’ll put your makeup on.  What’s the outfit, Megan?”

“We found this old kilt of mine,” Megan said.  “That I used to wear for band.  Figured we could make him like a private girls’ school outfit.  We’ll need a white dress shirt though.  And a tie, they wear those, don’t they?  I’ll get something from Ryan.”

“I have those,” Sam said.  “I brought them to go with my Mulder costume.  They’re downstairs, in my knapsack.  I’ll get them.”

“No, you stay here,” Carla said.  “I’ll get them.  Where’s your knapsack?”

“It’s in the hallway, under my jacket,” Sam said.  And then, “Oh, _shit!”_

The girls were staring at him.  “What?” Carla asked.

Sam was white.  His cellphone was in his jacket pocket, he’d forgotten.  All he needed right now was for _Dean_ to call him and one of the guys to answer his phone for a joke (and it’s not like _that_ hadn’t happened before).  He wouldn’t put it past Geoff or Ryan to say something about this whole thing to Dean.  And then his brother would be over here in a flash… and, shall we say, upset.

“C’n you get my jacket too?” he asked Carla.

“Sure.”  She left.

When she returned, carrying Sam’s knapsack and jacket, Sam was standing, wearing a little green plaid kilt, still bare chested, his legs bare.  The kilt ended about three inches past his ass.

“It’s a little short,” Carla said.  “You c’n see his boxers.  Doesn’t really work.”

“I know,” Kelly said.  “Megan, do you have anything else?”

“Not really,” Megan said.  “I don’t have any dresses – that aren’t _really_ dressy that is, that my mom bought me for church.”  Asked Carla, “You wanna see those?”

“Okay.”

Sam had made a beeline for his jacket, pulling out his phone.  Had Dean called while Sam was upstairs?  He hadn’t.  Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

Kelly was beside him.  “Is that your cellphone?”

“Yeah.” 

“Neat.”  She took it from him, suddenly.  Sam had to restrain himself from grabbing it back.  “I think it’s so cool, you having one of these.  I’ve been asking my mom.”  She flipped it open, started playing with it.  “Can I use this to call Michelle?”

“No, sorry,” Sam said (Dean checked Sam’s call history).  He took the phone from Kelly firmly (why was everyone always so fascinated with it?) and turned it off.  Better to not to have Dean calling right now, not with Sam half naked and surrounded by girls.  He could just see one of the girls grabbing the phone from him and giggling into it.  Another event guaranteed to make Dean unhappy.  Sam put his phone back in his jacket pocket.  They were leaving soon.  He’d turn it on again on the way to the dance, take the chance Dean wouldn’t call him in the meantime.

Carla was holding up a full skirt with flowers on it, and Megan was holding up a frilly type dress with lace around the hem.  “These are longer,” Carla said to Sam.  “What you think of them?”

“Um, no.”  Sam said. 

“They’re all I’ve got,” Megan said.  “I haven’t really been wearing dresses since grade school.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said.  “I’ll just go as Mulder, anyway.”

“What and disappoint everybody?” Carla said.  “The guys’ll say you chickened out.”

“Well I _have,”_ Sam said.  He shrugged (he was relieved, to be honest).

Carla was shaking her head.  “No,” she said.  “We can still make this work.”  She looked critically at the legs of Sam’s boxer shorts, which were the longer kind, ending partway down his thighs and clearly visible from under the kilt (Dean liked Sam in jockeys, but Sam had spoken up, the last time they were in Walmart.  He wanted to wear boxers, like Dean).

Carla grinned, suddenly.  “Megan,” she said.  “Can you lend Sam a pair of panties?”

 _“What?”_ Sam said.

“You serious?” Megan said.  She was smiling, uncertainly.

Carla nodded.  “That’s the only thing that’ll work,” she said.

 _“No,”_ Sam said, definitely.

Carla pouted at him.  “Oh c’mon, Sam.  No one’ll know but us.  We’ll keep it a secret.”  She stepped close to him.  “It’ll be hot,” she said.

Sam took a breath.  He _was_ kind of interested, in spite of himself.  He’d actually been tempted to buy a pair, the last time Dean and him were out shopping, as a joke (and because the thought of Dean, _seeing_ him in those…).  Sam bit his lip.  He hadn’t had the nerve to browse for panties in the women’s section of Walmart, not in front of all those other shoppers, and not with his big brother strolling along beside him (I mean, a fifteen year old boy, doing that?  – that _would_ look weird, even for Walmart).  But he’d thought about it.

Megan was rummaging around in a drawer.  She pulled out a couple of pairs of panties and brought them over to Sam.  Held them out.  Sam took them, reluctantly.  They were cotton bikini panties, one in a flowered pattern and one with the word Wednesday, in blue writing, across the butt.

“Um, no,” Sam said.  He handed them back.

Carla was shaking her head too.  “Don’t you have something better?” she asked Megan.  “Jeez.”  She was over at Megan’s drawer, pawing through its contents.  Pulled something out.  “Here.”  She held up a pair of filmy pink panties, with white lace around the waist and legs. 

“Carla _no!”_ Megan said.  “Those are my favourite.”

“Well just think how hot you’ll feel, wearing them after _Sam’s_ worn them,” Carla said. 

Megan looked at Sam.  He was red now, he couldn’t help it.  “Okay,” she said.

Carla grinned.  She held the panties out to Sam.  He didn’t move.

Carla sighed.  “ _C’mon_ Sam, you were making a big point down there, about how cool it was to be a girl.  Don’t disappoint your new sisters.”

Kelly shook her head.  “Carla, shut up.”  Turned to Sam.  “She’s being a bitch.  You don’t have to do it.”

Sam smiled at her.  Then turned to Carla.  “What are _you_ gonna do, if I do this?”

Carla looked at him.  Then she grinned again.  “I’ll let you see _my_ panties,” she said.

Sam considered this.  He didn’t think Carla was teasing.  And he _was_ pretty interested in seeing that, he had to admit.  And after all, she had seen _him._   Fair was fair.

“Okay,” he said.  “Deal.”  He reached out and took the panties.  “Don’t back out on me, now,” he said to Carla.  Her eyes widened.  “I won’t,” she said.  She sounded pretty interested too.

Sam smiled.  Then said to the girls, “Close your eyes.”  They all closed their eyes obediently.  Sam quickly shucked off his boxers and pulled on the panties.  Arranged himself.  The panties didn’t fit comfortably (obviously not designed for guys).  But they were silky smooth under his fingers.  He was super turned on again, suddenly.  Luckily the panties were tight enough that they held him in, somewhat.  Sam thought about Dean, looking at him in these.  Then _stopped_ thinking about that, as quickly as possible (and started thinking about rotten food, and cat shit and dog vomit – always good subjects, for killing an erection – something Sam had become adept at doing now, in public, thanks to Dean).

“I’m done,” he said.  The girls opened their eyes.  “What’s next?” Sam asked.

Carla was kneeling over his knapsack, pulling out the white dress shirt and tie.  “Here, put this on.”

“Lemme me put my tshirt on first,” Sam said.

“No, just this,” Carla said.  “We’ll tie it around your waist.  You’ll look like Britney Spears.”  She was helping him pull it on.  Then she buttoned the shirt part way up and tied the loose tails under his ribs, leaving his midriff bare.  “There,” she said.  “So cute.”

The three girls were looking at him, fascinated.  “Your legs look about a mile long,” Kelly said.  “I wish _I_ had legs like that.”

“I know, right?” Megan said.  “Let me get the knee socks I wore with that.”  She pulled a pair of dark green knee socks out of a drawer, handed them to Sam.  He pulled them on.  “Too small,” he said.  “But I guess I can wear them for one night.”

Kelly was looking at his feet.  “What about shoes?” she asked.  “He can’t wear his runners, they wouldn’t look right.”

“I’ll see if my dad or Ryan have something,” Megan said.  “What shoe size are you, Sam?”

“Size ten,” Sam said.  Megan nodded.  “Ryan’s size ten, you’re lucky.”  She left.

Came back, carrying a pair of men’s loafers.  Sam was sitting in a chair now, Carla brushing his hair again.  He’d tied his tie loosely around his throat.  “Here, put these on,” Megan said.   She knelt, helped Sam slip on the loafers. “We’re doing pigtails,” Carla said to her.  “It goes with this whole school girl thing.  Get me some more hair elastics, Megan.”  Carla quickly braided Sam’s hair into two high, tight braids, lying flat against the sides of his head and ending in short pigtails at the back, securing them with the elastics.  “I love the way you do French braids,” Kelly said.  Carla nodded.  “Do you have hair ribbons?” she asked Megan.  “Yeah, somewhere.”  Megan rummaged around again then handed Carla two thin black satin ribbons.  Carla tied them around Sam’s pigtails in bows.

Sam gazed at his reflection across from him, in the long mirror on Megan’s closet door.  His hair.  It didn’t look _bad_ (kind of like cornrows). But still.  “I look weird,” he said.

“You do not,” Carla said.  “You look totally cute.”  She smiled at Sam.  “I’ll tell everyone you’re my friend from another school,” she said.

“This is nuts,” Sam said.  He was feeling reluctant again.  “This isn’t a good idea, people’ll still recognize me.  And I still have to _go_ to this school, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Carla said.  “You’re with us, remember?  No one’s going to say anything.  And if they do, we’ll just tell them you did this because of a dare.  Which you did, anyways.  Okay?”

Sam sighed.  “Okay,” he said.

Carla smiled.  “Let’s put your makeup on,” she said.

Sam looked up at the faces of the three girls, gazing at him intently, fascinated.  He sighed again.  Nodded.

He was staring at himself in the mirror again.

Kelly and Carla stood beside him (Megan was putting on her costume now and had disappeared somewhere to change).   

“He looks great, Carla,” Kelly said.

“You really do, Sam,” Carla said. 

Carla had reviewed every makeup product Megan made available (which between her and her mom had been plenty).  Then she’d lined Sam’s eyes with brown eyeliner and put shiny gold and green powder on his eyelids.  Sam’s eyes looked huge now, and slanted upwards like a cat’s, a startling yellow green.  Carla had brushed his eyebrows into sleek wings using some sort of gel and curled his eyelashes (“God, Sam your eyelashes are like an inch long – I’m so _jealous”_ ), swiping at them lightly with mascara.  She’d brushed some colour onto his cheekbones and fluffed a fine, light powder over the rest of his face.  Then she’d brushed Sam’s lips with a clear gloss.

Sam stared at himself, fascinated.  He didn’t look like a girl, exactly.  You could see his Adam’s apple.  His face was still boyish.  But a boyish face now richly defined, with large dramatic eyes and a curvy, luscious mouth, with a fine oval face, palely delicate under glimmering powder. 

Guys just didn’t _look_ like that. 

And then the clothes – that little kilt, resting just above his hipbones and brushing the tops of his thighs, the white shirt, a man’s shirt but knotted up under his ribs, exposing his slender, tightly muscled midriff and flat stomach.  The man’s tie, but loose around his throat, like a woman’s scarf.  And the graceful shape of his head, noticeable again with his hair tied back so tightly in those curving flat braids.

Not like a girl.  Not exactly.  But then…not like a _guy,_ either. 

It seemed that somehow, between the makeup and the braided hair and this little skirt over long, lean gleaming legs…there was a new, third kind of person standing in front of him, not defined by either gender, startling.

Appearing suddenly, like magic.

Fascinating.

Sam stared at himself.

And then he realized something.

 _This_ was the person his dad looked for. 

When he stared at Sam with those cold, suspicious eyes.

_(Prove me wrong)_

This was the person his dad _didn’t_ want to see.  Who he was scared of seeing. 

But compelled to look for.

Sam stared at that person, looking back at him now, out of the mirror.

“You look incredible,” Carla said softly.  Sam met her eyes in the mirror.  She was staring at him gravely, no hint of a smile.

“You really do,” Kelly said, equally serious.  “Like a model.”

“I don’t look like a girl though,” Sam said.  His reflection gazing at him, thoughtful.

“No,” Carla said.  She didn’t say anything else.

Megan was back in the room, dressed as a cowgirl in a pair of boots, jeans with a shiny rodeo style belt, plaid shirt and a hat.  She stopped, gaping at Sam.  “Oh my _god.”_

“I know, right?” Kelly said.

“We’ve gotta show the guys this,” Megan said.  “They’ll freak.”

“They’ll think _I’m_ a freak,” Sam said.  He saw his shoulders slump.

“You’re awesome,” Carla said.  She sounded sincere.  “If they think that, fuck them.”  She put her arm around Sam’s waist.  “C’mon.”  Kelly put her arm around Sam’s waist too.  The three of them stared back at their reflections, with Megan peering over Kelly’s shoulder.  Kelly started to smile.  “This is so crazy,” she said.  “I never thought he’d end up looking like _that.”_

Sam wasn’t smiling.  “I feel like I’m goin to throw up,” he said.

Carla looked at him in the mirror.  “You’ll be okay,” she said.  Patted him on his bare stomach.  “C’mon, awesome dude.”  Between her and Kelly, they led Sam from the room and down the stairs, with Megan trailing behind.

Leaving Sam’s jacket, with his cellphone in the pocket, lying forgotten on the floor. 

The four other guys were in the living room, lounging, their feet propped on the coffee table.  They’d all changed into their costumes.  They straightened up when the girls and Sam came into the room, their eyes widening.

“Holy… _FUCK!”_   Ryan said.  He stood up, walked over to Sam, a tall, slightly ridiculous figure in a long black cape, with white makeup on his face.  Reached out a hand to touch him, then stopped.  “I don’t _believe_ this!”

“…What?” Sam asked him.

“Dude…you’re _hot!_   Lookit those _legs!_   Shit!”  Ryan was laughing.  He was drunk, Sam realized, his eyes glossy.

“Before we go, you better have some coffee,” Sam said to him.  “You’re gonna get thrown out, teachers figure out you’re drunk.”

Ryan seemed unconcerned.  He stepped back, reeling slightly.  “Yeah, yeah…”

“I’ll make some.”  Megan disappeared into the kitchen.

Geoff and John were also standing.  They walked over to Sam, grinning.  “I can’t believe this,” Geoff said.  “You actually did it.  You _sick, sick fuck.”_

Sam smiled at him.  “Disturbing you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Geoff said.  “I’m pretty fuckin disturbed.  I didn't- “ he stopped talking, shook his head.  Looked at Carla.  “You’re evil,” he said.  Carla smiled at him.  “Sam’s my new bff,” she said.  “We’re gonna tell everyone he’s my girlfriend, from out of town.”

“Yeah,” John said.  _“Samantha.”_

They laughed at this, including Sam.  He was feeling good again, a little dizzy, but it wasn’t the alcohol, which had worn off.  He felt a great affection for these kids suddenly, standing around him in a loose circle, surrounding him, staring at him, but not angry, not mad at him, for doing this.  A little freaked out maybe.  But not angry.

Except.

Aaron hadn’t laughed.  He was still sitting on the couch.  He’d changed into his…Hallowe’en costume, apparently, but it wasn’t theatrical, like the others.  He was wearing army gear - a pair of fatigues, a tight khaki t-shirt and a pair of army boots.  He looked ready to report in for basic training.

“Why’re you laughing?” he asked.  “Sam looks like a fuckin fag.”

They all stared at him.  Aaron met Sam’s eyes, his expression cold and furious at the same time.  He stood up.  “I’m not goin anywhere with _him,_ lookin like that,” he said.  “You guys want a ride to the dance, you leave him behind.”

 _“Aaron!”_ Carla snapped. 

“Dude- “ John began.

“What?” Aaron said.  “You don’t think he looks like a fag?  That doesn’t _bother_ you?” 

Sam, staring at him, frozen.

“You’re being a total asshole, Aaron,” Carla said.  “That’s no way to act.”

“What would _you_ know about how to act, you fuckin slut?” Aaron said. 

Geoff stepped forward.  “That’s enough.”

“What, so you don’t think she’s a slut now?”  Aaron sneered at him.  “That’s not what you were sayin earlier.  Slutty little bitch, you said.”

Carla stared at Geoff, hurt.  Geoff was glaring at Aaron.  “Fuck off, Aaron,” Geoff said.

Ryan stepped forward, “Guys, guys,” he said.  “Let’s all take a pill, okay?”

“Fuck this,” Aaron said.  He walked out of the room.  The front door slammed.

The group looked at each other.  “Well there goes our ride,” John said.  “I guess we’re walkin.”

“Fine with me,” Carla said.  She was upset.  Geoff looked at her.  “Carla, I-“

She didn’t look at him.  “Fuck off Geoff.”

“I’m sorry,” Geoff said.  He looked miserable now.  The group was silent.

Sam stared at them, the fun evening he’d looked forward to, in ruins.  Then said, “I’ll be back.  Okay?”  He walked out of the room.  No one answered him.

Sam went into the front hall.  He hadn’t heard a car pull away.  He opened the front door, went out, the cold air hitting him with a painful blast.  Aaron’s car, a black four door SUV, was still parked in the driveway.  Sam looked at it.  Saw the dark shape of Aaron, sitting there.  A dim red glow.   Aaron was smoking.

Sam walked over to the passenger door side.  Opened the door and climbed in.

“What do _you_ want?”  Aaron didn’t look at him.  He was gazing morosely ahead of himself, smoking.

Sam stared at him silently.

Aaron glanced over at him.  Then he stubbed the cigarette out.  “What the fuck do you _want,_ _Samantha?”_

Sam said nothing.

“Say something,” Aaron snapped.  “Or get the fuck out of my car.”

“I’m not the first dude you liked,” Sam said.

Aaron stared at him.  _“What?”_

“You’ve liked other guys, before me,” Sam said. 

“…Get the fuck out of here,” Aaron said tightly.  “Before I punch your face in.”

Sam snorted.  “You wouldn’t get anywhere near me,” he said.  “I could take you out in about two seconds.”

Aaron looked at him.  Then said, “That so?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I know how to fight hand to hand.”

Aaron, looking at him closely now.  “You’re not joking, are you?”

“No,” Sam said. 

Aaron was silent.  Then asked, “Where’d you learn?”

“You’re not the only one with a tough dad,” Sam said.  “Mine used to be a marine.”

“Oh yeah?” Aaron said. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.

Aaron was silent.  Then asked, “So what does he do now?’

“He’s a…he’s a travelin salesman,” Sam said. 

Aaron snorted.  “That doesn’t sound so tough.”

“He sells huntin gear,” Sam said.  “For big game.  He’s kind of a specialist.  Kind of a consultant, too, for other big game hunters.”

“That sounds pretty obscure,” Aaron said.  Sam was quiet.  

“There much money in it?” Aaron asked, after a moment.

Sam laughed.  “Not much,” he said.  “My dad loves it though.  Wouldn’t do anythin else, he says.”

Aaron was looking down at his hands.  “My dad's an… _executive,_ ” he said.  “Big shot, at this technical firm.”

“Cool,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  “Real cool.  I see him, like twice a year.”

“Well, at least you get to drive wheels like this,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Aaron said, quietly.  Didn’t say anything more.

Sam was cold, in the silent SUV.  This girl clothing was pretty skimpy.  He crossed his arms over his front.  Crossed his legs.

Aaron’s eyes were on Sam’s legs, long and smooth under the little kilt.  He said, “I don’t know anything about what you were talking about, before.”

His eyes, on Sam’s legs. 

“Sure you do,” Sam said. 

“I’m not a fag, like you,” Aaron said harshly.

“No one’s like me,” Sam said.  His voice was sad.  Aaron looked at him.  Sam smiled.  “I’m unique,” he said.  Shrugged.

Aaron stared at him.  Sam watched his eyes, on Sam’s face, on Sam’s body.  Taking him in.

“Put your hand on my leg,” Sam said eventually.  “It feels real nice.”

Aaron didn’t move.  Didn’t say anything, either.

Sam gazed at him.  “Go on,” he said softly.  “It’s alright.”

Aaron stayed motionless.  Sam could see he was thinking about jumping out of his own car, slamming the door, leaving Sam sitting there alone.  But then he slowly reached over.  Put his hand on Sam’s thigh.

“Rub it,” Sam whispered.  Aaron was still.  But then he rubbed his hand slowly back and forth.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Sam whispered.

“Yeah,” Aaron whispered back.  His hand, on Sam’s thigh.  He was shaking slightly, Sam noticed.

“You sad about your girlfriend?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  Suddenly he was crying.  “Real sad,” he whispered.  He bent his head.  Sam put his hand on top of Aaron’s hand.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

Aaron was still.  He’d gripped the flesh of Sam’s thigh, hard.  He stayed quiet, his head bent.  Then asked, “What’re you _doing here,_ Sam?” 

“You’re upset,” Sam said.  “And I’m catchin you at a vulnerable moment.  Takin advantage.”

Aaron looked up.  Sam smiled at him.  Aaron stared at this, then slowly released Sam’s thigh, sat back.

“I said I wasn’t a fag,” he said.  But his voice wasn’t angry anymore.

Sam shrugged.  “No one is,” he said.

Aaron was silent.  Then said, “I don’t know what to do.”  He’d bent his head again.  “With all this.”  His expression twisted, suddenly.

“Do what you want,” Sam said.  “Like you always do.”

Aaron stared at him.  Then said, “I _don’t_ always do what I want.”

Sam smiled.  “Sure you do,” he said.  “That’s how you’re made.  I get it.”

Aaron, looking at him.

“I get that, about you,” Sam said.

Aaron, silent.

“That’s what makes you hot,” Sam added.

Silence.

“I understand you,” Sam whispered.

And he did.  He understood dudes like Aaron, just fine.  Sam closed his eyes.

_(Dean)_

“…You think I’m hot?” Aaron asked him.  His voice was toneless, almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam answered quietly, in the same voice.  “Real hot.” 

Aaron, breathing shallowly.  Then he slowly put his hand on Sam’s thigh again.  Rubbed his fingers against it.  

Said, “I want to do more than this.”

“Me too,” Sam whispered.  He was close to tears, suddenly. 

_(Dean.  Sam had to stop this, now)._

Sam opened his eyes.  “Let’s go to the dance,” he said.  “Like we all planned.  We can figure this out, after.”

Aaron’s hand stayed on his thigh.  “I don’t want to,” he said.  “Let’s drive some place, just you and me.  Figure this out now.”

Sam slipped his own hand under Aaron’s hand.  Clasped it, preventing those fingers from touching him further.  “No,” he said.  “The others were counting on you.  We take off like that, they’ll be really bummed.  That’s not fair.”

Aaron looked at him.  He'd leaned close and for a moment Sam thought he was going to kiss him.  But then he sat back.  “I was an asshole,” he said.  “They’re not gonna want anything to do with me.”

“Sure they will,” Sam said.  “Just go in and say sorry.  They’ll be happy.”

Aaron sighed.  “I dunno,” he said. 

But then Ryan’s front door opened.  Sam and Aaron looked up.  The tall, caped figure of Ryan was standing in the doorway, peering out at them.  “Dude!” he called.  “You’re still here!”

Aaron had let go of Sam’s hand.  He opened the SUV’s door, got out.  Sam started to get out too.  “No,” Aaron said.  He looked at Sam.  “You stay there.  I’m taking you to the dance.  I’ll just be a minute.”

“But-“

Aaron smiled at him.  “Just stay there,” he said.  Closed the door.

Then called to Ryan.  “What’re you assholes waiting for?  Get out here!”

Ryan. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”  Aaron was walking towards the house.  He glanced back at Sam, saw him sitting obediently in the car.  Then went inside, followed by Ryan.  The front door closed.

Sam sat uncertainly in the cold dark car.  He wasn’t happy about being left there.

But then the front door opened again.  Everyone trooped out this time, talking and laughing.  Walked over to the SUV and got in, piling into the back.

“Wow, _Samantha_ gets the front seat!”  Geoff said.  “That’s Michelle’s spot.”

 _“Shuddup_ asshole!” John said.  They all looked at Aaron cautiously.

“You want to walk, Geoff?”  Aaron was buckling his seatbelt. 

“Sorry,” Geoff said. 

“Everybody okay?” Aaron asked them.

“Yeah,” Carla said.  “Let’s just get going okay?  We’re packed like sardines back here.  And Ryan smells.”

“I do not!” said Ryan.

“Yeah dude, you do,” said Geoff.

Sam glanced back.  Geoff, Kelly, Ryan and Carla were bunched together in the backseat, with John and Megan in the hatchback trunk, their heads just visible.  Carla was squeezed between Geoff and Ryan.  She didn’t look unhappy, Sam noticed.  Carla smiled at him.  “Hey pretty,” she said.

Sam winked at her.  “Hey sexy,” he said back.  Carla’s eyes widened.  Sam smiled at her and shrugged.  Hey, Carla wasn’t the only smart ass here.  Aaron’s eyes were on him.  Sam felt his look and glanced up.  Aaron looked away quickly.  But Sam saw his hands tighten on the wheel.

Sam sat back, made a point of doing up his seatbelt, adjusting himself more comfortably.  He arched his back, stretching.  Ran a hand over his bare abdomen.  Stretched out his legs.  He saw Aaron glance over, involuntarily. 

Sam smiled.  He was enjoying himself, again.

The gym was packed – it looked like the whole school was there.  Everybody was having a great time, dancing with a quality of freedom that must come with being in costume, the light side of Hallowe’en presumably (Sam didn’t know much about that side).

He stayed with his group, who kept mostly together, except for Megan, who found some of her own friends and disappeared into the crowd.  He got a lot of second glances but true to what Carla had said, no one gave him a hard time.  Being with two hot girls as well as the four boys, all talking and laughing with Sam, clearly comfortable with him, was a buffer, he guessed.  “It was a dare-“ he overheard John saying, to another kid, an older boy Sam had seen in the halls.  Sam relaxed.

And started to have fun.  He’d never been to a school dance before (Dean never let him).  And Dean said they were real lame anyway. 

But _this_ wasn’t lame – the music was great (Sam rarely got to listen to anything recorded after 1979), and everyone seemed to be in a good mood, jumping around.  And Sam discovered he was a decent dancer.

He was up for practically every dance, sometimes with just Kelly and Carla, sometimes with the whole group, and sometimes with other kids, friends of one of the kids in his group, who joined them for awhile.  Carla was protective of him, he noticed, sticking with him, introducing him as her friend from out of town to any of the other kids who joined them.  Most of them recognized Sam anyway (staring at him, their eyes wide), but they appeared to accept that this was some kind of…game being played, between Sam and his friends (and an eerily successful Hallowe’en costume too). 

Sam was conscious of Aaron, and he could see Aaron was conscious of him.  Word had spread rapidly of Aaron’s breakup with Michelle, and Kelly and Carla were approached by other curious girls, eager to discuss the news.  Aaron didn’t dance with Sam, Kelly and Carla for every dance, disappearing for periods of time into the crowd, but he always came back.  And when he did, he placed himself next to Sam.

Sam didn’t say anything, barely looked at him.  But he was aware of Aaron, beside him.

A slow dance now.  Savage Garden (Sam had a sneaking love for that band – he’d bought the cassette tape, actually – and played it sometimes, in the Impala, not with their dad around of course, but with Dean, who’d groan, theatrically).

Sam opened his arms, stepped forward.  He would be joined, he knew.

Earlier in the evening, when the first slow number came on, Sam had halted awkwardly on the dance floor.  He was having fun and wanted to keep dancing.  But he felt weird about slow dancing with a girl, even Carla, dressed like he was.  I mean, it was one thing to be bopping around like this in a group.  But pairing up – it felt weird.  He turned to go.

Carla called out.  “Stay with us, Sam,” she said.  Geoff was with her at this point, and Kelly.  Carla had her arms around both of them.  She smiled at him.  “We’ll all dance together.”  Sam looked at her.  There was an odd expression on her face.  Something was important here, Sam saw, it was important to Carla that he stay.  He stepped forward, putting one arm around Kelly’s waist, and the other (rather reluctantly), around Geoff’s shoulders.  Geoff put an arm around Sam’s shoulders.  “Dude, don’t get _any_ ideas,” Geoff muttered to him.  “Trust me,” Sam muttered back.  “No ideas here.”

The four of them, clasping each other loosely, swaying to the music.  But then Ryan joined them, jumping joyfully into their circle, flapping his cape.  And then another girl from Sam’s class, who’d followed Ryan, laughing.  And then two more girls.  And then John.  By the end of the song, they were a group of at least twelve, arms loosely around each other, quite pleased with themselves.  And Sam, looking across the circle, saw Carla with her head tipped towards Kelly, her arm around Kelly’s waist.  She met Sam’s eyes.  Kelly was smiling, swaying to the music, not noticing this.  Sam gazed at the two of them, then looked at Carla, who was watching him quietly. 

Then a fast song came on and the group broke up, bopping now.  Sam, still looking at Carla.  She was dancing, smiling, saying something to Kelly and then to Geoff.  She glanced at Sam, stopped smiling for a moment.  But nodded at him.  And Sam understood.

He looked at the rest of the kids, dancing.  It looked so innocent.  And it was _fun,_ okay, what was the harm in that?  And Sam remembered when he’d wanted to go last year, to a school dance, and he’d been pretty upset when Dean hadn’t let him.  And he hadn’t understood, if Dean was so worried, why Dean couldn't just go _with_ him.  Keep an eye on things, if he was so worried.

But now he understood.

Carla, wanting to dance with Kelly.  To put her arms around her, swaying to the music.  In the middle of this dark, warm room, this happy crowd.  To celebrate the energy of this crowd, this night, with the person most special of all. 

But not being able to.  Not out in the open.  Not without heavy duty consequences.

And Sam, understanding that.  Because if Dean were here, he’d want to dance with him, he’d feel deprived, not being able to dance like that with his brother.

And Dean, looking at Sam _(my Sammy)_ , seeing Sam slow dance, maybe, with someone else, while Dean was fending off a girl (or two, or three).  Not able to hold his brother under the purple-blue lights, like all the other couples, embracing each other, swaying.  Dean would be miserable.  That would make him miserable, Sam understood that.

Sam felt a great longing for his brother, suddenly.  Dean.  He wanted to slow dance with Dean on the dark dance floor.

But it would never happen.

Dean and him, keeping their secret, for all this time.

A burden, for both of them.

Sam looked away from the sight of Carla and Kelly (and Geoff and Ryan and John and a couple of others) dancing together.  He was thirsty, he wanted a drink.  He turned to go.  And almost walked into Aaron, who’d been standing right behind him.

Sam halted.  “Oh!  Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m getting a drink,” Sam said, after a moment.

“I’ll come with you,” Aaron said.

“Okay.”

They walked over to the drinks table, got themselves plastic cups of Coke.  Sam drank his in about three gulps.  Aaron smiled.  “Thirsty?”

“Yeah.”

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah.  I’ve never been to one of these before.”

“…Never been to a school _dance?”_

“No.”

“Well…now you know what you missed.  Whoo-ha.”

Sam laughed.  “Yeah.  But seriously, it’s great.”

“Hey Aaron, who’s that _girl_ you’re with?”  A call from another boy.  Sam didn’t know him.  He felt vulnerable, suddenly, half naked like he was, dressed like this, his legs and midriff on display for anyone to comment on.  He froze, the cup forgotten in his hand.

Aaron turned his head briefly.  “Fuck off, O’Donnell.”  Drained his drink and put it down.  Turned back to Sam.  “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Aaron looked at him.  Then said, “Back to the others.”  He turned and walked off, but then paused, waiting for Sam to catch up.  Sam put down his cup and followed him.

The next slow dance, Carla danced with Geoff and Kelly danced with Aaron.  Ryan asked Sam to dance with _him_ (in front of a group of giggling girls), but Sam declined.  Sat that one out.  But on the _next_ slow dance, after a couple of fast ones, Carla gathered a group around her again, her arm around Kelly.  Sam joined her, and Aaron was there too (he’d stayed with Sam and Kelly and Carla, through the previous fast dances).  He put an arm loosely around Sam’s shoulders.  Sam draped an arm casually across Aaron’s back.  He didn’t feel casual though, his breath was coming fast.  Throughout the dance, he was conscious of Aaron’s warm, solid presence beside him, Aaron not as tall as Dean, but well built, his broad back firm with muscle.

And then the next slow dance, Aaron was still beside him, the group bigger this time (Carla had started a trend, it seemed).

And now this one.

There were only five of them, Ryan, Kelly, Carla, Sam and Aaron.  Geoff and John had gone off somewhere, and the girl who’d been trailing Ryan all night had left too, at the last minute.  After she left, Aaron said to Ryan, “Dude, I’m _not_ puttin my arm around you.  Get lost.”

“Why?” Ryan asked him.  “You’ve got your arm around _Sam._   Don’t hurt my feelings, bro.”

Aaron had nothing to say to that.

Sam barely noticed this.  A strange emotion had taken him over, a feeling of…expansiveness, somehow.  Like a clamp had loosened from around his brain, a clamp he hadn’t known existed until now.

Like everything was going to be alright. 

It was a weird feeling, so different from how Sam _usually_ felt (so guarded all the time, except for when he was moaning, abandoned in Dean’s arms).

He was happy, Sam realized.  _Happy._   And it was different from the happiness he felt with Dean.

Not better ( _nothing_ could be better than being with Dean, of course).  But…not worse, either. 

This dance, with its fizzy pop music and these kids in silly costumes…this group, these _friends,_ that he’d connected with, somehow, in a way that meant something, so unexpectedly…and Aaron, flirting with Aaron, a tingle on Sam’s skin as he stood next to him (and he’d never thought he’d have that feeling with another person ever, not with Dean ruling his thoughts, his feelings, his _body,_ for years…)

…all of that made him happy.

Life could be happy.

Life didn’t have to be such a struggle.

Life didn’t have to be a _war,_ all the time, like their dad said.  Like Dean said.

Life could just…be.

Not everything was a strategy.

And Sam could just be.  He didn’t have to prove anything.

Sam felt the happiness expanding in his middle, like a warm little sun.  He bumped his hips gently against Aaron’s hips, and then Carla’s, on his other side.  Carla immediately bumped her hips against Sam’s.  Leaned over and whispered in his ear.  “Panties.”

Sam grinned.  He was going to enjoy that.  Why should it be just Dean, who got to play around with girls?  Sam could help himself to the candy store too.  He’d do things differently than Dean though – he _liked_ Carla – she was a friend.

And then Aaron’s arm, heavy on Sam’s shoulders _._   A hard, muscular arm, almost like Dean’s, but different.

Not Dean’s arm.  But Sam was enjoying it.  Did that make him a bad person? 

Being with Dean.  That was everything to Sam, that was _him,_ who he was.  Nothing could replace Dean, ever.

But enjoying other people –even just a little bit…he could do that, couldn’t he? 

Dean had kept him in a cage, Sam reflected, for years, ever since this had all started (and maybe even before, for Sam’s whole _life,_ if he was being honest with himself).  An anxious cage of obligations, confining him  _( I’m the one you pay attention to Sammy/obey me/love me/need me)._   And Sam had kept _himself_ in that cage too, so careful with himself, guarding himself, so careful not to step outside (because that would _hurt_ Dean, that would make him upset).

And Sam had done his best.

For Dean.

Because love was difficult.  A test of character.  Sam accepted that.

But maybe not. 

Maybe it didn’t have to be.

Maybe love could just…be. 

Just be something, too, that Sam didn’t have to worry about all the time. 

Sam could just _be_.  And maybe…Dean would not be destroyed, by that.

Maybe Dean would be okay.

Because Sam would show Dean…that he’d be _okay._

Things could be easy, between them.

Love not always something to prove.

Was that possible?

Right now, Sam felt that anything was possible.  For him _and_ Dean.

Happiness.  Being happy.  It was possible. 

Being.

He squeezed Aaron’s waist.  Aaron’s arm tightened around him.  Then Aaron leaned over, spoke into Sam’s ear.  “What’s up?”

Sam turned his face towards Aaron.  Felt the lightest brush of Aaron’s lips against his ear.  “Nothin,” Sam said, smiling.  “Just happy.  That’s all.”

He felt Aaron breathing, under his arm.  He could see Aaron was about to say something. 

But then a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder.

 _“Sammy!_   _What the fuck!”_

Dean’s voice.  Sam’s stomach dropped down to his toes.  He turned around.  “Dean!”

Dean’s face, white, even in the darkened gym.  His eyes on Sam, blazing.

“You little _bitch-“_


	33. Chapter 33

“- what the fuck you think you’re _doin!”_ Dean gripped Sammy’s shoulder and wrenched him out of the circle of kids, breaking him free from the arms of those two underage pervs he’d watched feeling Sammy up, before he’d figured out who kilt girl was.

 _“Ouch!_   Dean!  _C’mon…”_   Sammy stumbled.  Dean looked at those long legs, bent at the knee, Sammy about to fall on his ass.  He pulled his brother upright.  Then slapped him hard across the face.

“ _Ow!_   _Dean!“_   Sammy’s hand was on his cheek, his eyes on Dean, huge.  Fuck.  Was Sammy wearing _makeup?_    He _was._   His eyes were like enormous jewels, painted with some sort of glittery stuff and his mouth was shining with gloss.  A doll’s mouth.  And with his hair in those braids and that little skirt, it was like Dean had just hit a girl.  This didn’t make Dean less angry.  He grabbed Sammy’s upper arms and shook him violently.  Sammy’s head rocked back. 

“I let you talk me into this and THIS IS WHAT YOU DO!”  Dean was shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice rising above the music.

The rest of the kids were staring at them.  Aaron, that little prick playing soldier, stepped forward.  “Hey man, cut that the fuck out.  What do you- “ he put a hand on Sammy’s waist and started to move in front of him protectively.  Dean saw this and saw red.   He lashed out, punching Aaron in the face.  Aaron reeled back, shocked.  Before he could react Dean punched him in the ribs, felt a bone crack.  Then he hit Aaron hard on the jaw with a closed fist.  Aaron went down, knocked out cold.  He was on the floor, flat on his back, motionless.  Dean stood over the twerp’s prone body, fury still exploding through him like shrapnel.  He just stopped himself from kicking the kid in some important organ, maybe finishing him off.

Girls, screaming.

Sammy, shouting now.  “Dean!  Fuck!  Did you _kill_ him?”  His brother kneeling beside his new boyfriend, fingers on his throat feeling for a pulse.  Latex girl, crouched beside him, screaming and sobbing like a maniac.  “Omigod!  Omigod!”

Dean grabbed Sammy’s arm, wrenched him to his feet.  “We’re gettin out of here.”

“Dean, no!”  Sammy crying – _crying,_ over that little punk.  “I can’t just leave him lyin there-“

“You sure as fuck _can,_ you little bitch, because if _I_ stay, it’s gonna get _bad_ ,” Dean said to him.  “So make your choice.”  He saw some teachers running over, two men and a woman.  Any second now the music would stop and the lights would be on.  Dean wanted to get him and Sammy out of here without having to draw his gun, maybe ending up a story on the evening news.  It’s not like the _country_ needed to know about his brother in a dress.  “Let’s _go_ Sammy!”

Latex girl had turned around, glaring at Dean, her eyes wild.  “You fuckin _psycho!_ ” she yelled.  “You’re goin to _jail_ for this! _”_

 _“See?”_ Dean said to Sammy.  Sammy was standing frozen, eyes darting desperately between Dean, latex girl and lover boy, lying on the floor.  “He’s not _dead,_ you fuckin idiot,” Dean said to him.  “You think I don’t know how to throw a punch?  And we gotta leave _now!_   _So make your fuckin choice!”_

Sammy, staring at him, tearful.  Then he looked over Dean’s shoulder, his eyes widening.  Dean turned and jabbed his fingers up under the chin of the male teacher who’d been about to grab him from behind.  Drove them like spikes into the soft flesh, bringing the man up onto his toes.  “Try somethin stupid asshole, these go into your brain,” Dean said to him.  The teacher was gagging.  “Make your choice, Sammy,” Dean said again.  Sammy not moving.  “Make your _choice!”_   Dean yelled at him.  He turned.

Sammy’s eyes, staring at him.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “Let’s go.”  He leapt past Dean, heading for the gym’s doors. 

Dean released the teacher and followed his brother at a dead run, watching those long legs flashing in front of him. 

They exited the gym and ran rapidly down the hallway.  ‘Where’s the car?” Sam asked over his shoulder.

“Parkin lot, to your left,” Dean said.

They were in the parking lot, racing towards the Impala.  Passed a couple of kids, huddled over cigarettes, staring at them.  Jumped in.  The school doors had opened again, dark figures silhouetted, peering out.

Dean gunned the Impala out of there.

“Where’re your clothes?” he asked Sammy as they drove quickly away.  “And all the rest of your stuff?  Tell me not at the school.”

Sammy was slumped in the passenger seat.  He didn’t answer.  Dean turned.  _“Where’s your stuff, Sammy!”_ he yelled.  “Answer me, _now!”_

“At Ryan’s,” Sammy answered, lifelessly.

“What, everythin?”  Dean asked him.  “Phone too?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.  “All my books.  And my…notebook.  ’N’ my wallet ‘n’ knife.”

“You mean your _research_ notebook?”  Dean asked him. 

“Yeah,” Sammy said miserably.  “I had it in my binder from yesterday, I forgot.”

“You fuckin twit,” Dean said to him.  “Well at least everythin’s in one place.  We c’n get it back, that’s somethin.  Where’s Ryan’s house?”

“I don’t want us goin there,” Sam said.  “Not like this.  I’ll go tomorrow morning, early.”

“There’s not gonna be a tomorrow mornin,” Dean said to him briefly. 

“What?”

“I mean we’re leavin town tonight.”

 _“What?_   Why!”

“You think we can _stay here,_ Sammy, after all that?” Dean asked him.  “Cops’re goin to be knockin at our door in a couple hours, you c’n bet on that.  So where’s Ryan’s house?” 

Sammy didn’t answer.

Dean had had enough.  Turned and yelled, “Where’s that asshole’s _house,_ Sammy – answer me or so help me _god-“_

Sammy answered him in a low voice, giving him the address and directions.  Dean swerved the car sharply to the right.  He had his cellphone out, dialling their dad.  Sammy stared at him silently.

“…Yeah?”  Their dad’s rough voice, slurred with sleep and whiskey.

“We gotta roll,” Dean said to him.  “There’s gonna be heat on me real soon.”

“What?  _Fuck!”_   Their dad’s voice blasting over the cellphone, furious.  Dean saw Sammy cringe out of the corner of his eye.

“Sammy ‘n’ me’ll be back in a few minutes,” Dean said.  “C’n you get packin?  I’ll drive.”

“We c’nt leave the hunt _now!”_ their dad said.

“I c’nt stay, Dad, I’m sorry,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna be useless to you I get arrested anyways.  A liability.”

“Arrested for _what?”_ their dad snapped.

“Assault,” Dean said.  “Some little twerp.  His parents might press charges.”

“You hit some _kid?”_ their dad asked.

“Yeah.” 

“Who saw?”

“Everybody.  The whole school.”

“…Did this have somethin to do with _Sam?”_ Their dad’s voice deepening.  Dean saw Sammy cringe again.

“No,” Dean said.  “It was my fault.”  He glanced at Sammy.  Sammy was staring straight ahead, his face set and still.  “But we gotta go, I don’t want Sammy bein bothered by the cops or any Child Services douche.  You neither.  We don’t need that kinda hassle.  Okay Dad?”

Their dad, sighing.  “I’ll get packin.  But that was a stupid fuckin move, Dean.  I’m disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.  He felt lousy.  And as for Sammy – he couldn’t even _think_ about how he felt about Sammy, right now.  He needed to be able to function.  To get them out of here.

Sammy, sitting next to him.  “I’m not leavin town,” he said quietly.

“Yes you are,” Dean replied in a hard voice.  “Now shut up.”

They were in front of Ryan’s house.   Lights still on.  Good.  Dean didn’t have to get anyone out of bed.  Or break in.  He got out of the car.  Leaned in and looked at Sammy.  “You stay there,” he said to him.  “I’ll get your stuff.  Where is it?”

“I c’n-“

“Shuddup.  You’re stayin put.  I’ll be back in a moment.  Where’s your stuff?”

“But I c’n-“

“I’m not havin anyone else see you like that!” Dean snapped.  “Now where’s your _stuff,_ Sammy!”

“Megan’s room,” Sammy said.  “Ryan’s sister.”

“Fuck.”  Dean looked at Sammy again, sitting there dressed like a twelve year old whore.  He shook his head.  “You n’ me, we’re-“

Sammy, glaring at _him_ now.  _“What!”_

“…You little bitch,” Dean said to him tightly.  “You don’t get to ask me questions.  You’re just gonna answer ‘em.  As soon as I’ve got us outa this mess.”

“That _you made!”_   Sammy shouted at him.  Tears were standing in his eyes.  “This is all _your fault,_ Dean!”

“Keep your fuckin voice down!” Dean snapped at him.

“No!” Sammy shouted back.  His chest was heaving.

Dean looked at him.  He took a breath.  “I’m not doin this right now,” he said.  “I’m gettin your stuff.  You stay in the car, got it?”

“Why should I?”  Sammy whispered.  He was crying.  He’d put his hand on the door handle.

Dean looked at this.  Because it’s freezing out and you’re dressed like a slut who’s asking to be raped, he thought, but didn’t say.  He was popping the trunk of the Impala, retrieving something.  Went to the car’s passenger side and opened Sammy’s door.  Sammy looked up at him.  “What-“

Dean snapped a pair of handcuffs on Sammy’s left wrist, then secured him to the Impala’s steering wheel.

 _“Dean!”_   Sammy was shrieking at him.  “You’re stayin _in the car,”_   Dean said shortly.  “Now _shuddup!”_   He slammed the passenger door. 

Walked rapidly up to Sammy’s friend’s house and rang the doorbell.  After a moment, it opened.

A tall blonde man in a sweater and pants, skinny except for a little potbelly sticking out, peering at Dean through glasses.  “Yes?”

Dean smiled at him.  “Ryan’s dad, right?  I’m the brother of one of Ryan’s friends,” he said.  “Sam.  He’s left some stuff here that I need to pick up.  I believe it’s in Megan’s room.  Would you mind if I just went upstairs and got it?  I know what I’m looking for.”

“Ryan?” Ryan’s dad said stupidly.  “Isn’t he at that school dance?  He and Megan’re both there.  They’re coming back soon, I think.”

Dean smiled through his irritation.  “Yes,” he said.  “They’re both at the dance.  They’re fine, they’re great.  But Sam had to leave early and I need to pick up his stuff for him.  May I please get it, sir?”

“I don’t understand,” Ryan’s dad said.  “Who’s Sam?”

Dean looked at him.  The man was sauced, he realized, barely standing upright.

“Fuck this,” Dean said.  He shoved past the drunk asshole, running lightly up the stairs.  “Hey!” the asshole shouted behind him.

Dean was in a girl’s room, Megan’s, must be.  A mess of girl things, scattered around.  Little slob.  He saw Sammy’s knapsack on the floor, his jacket lying next to it.  Dean knelt, grabbed the jacket, patted it.  Cellphone in one pocket and knife in the other, good.  Looked quickly in the knapsack.  Sammy’s wallet, good, and the notebook Sam kept, with all his little notes _(including_ pertinent details about their hunts -Sam a great research assistant, both Dean and their dad had to give him that).   Nothing appeared tampered with, good, no thanks to _Sammy_ , of course.  Dean stood to go.  Then he saw Sammy’s runners and clothes, scattered on the floor.  Picked them up.  Sammy’s new Nikes (that _Dean_ had recently bought for him, the ungrateful little brat) with his socks stuffed into them.   Tshirt, sweatshirt, jeans and – his _boxers?_   What the _fuck?_   Dean was shoving Sammy’s clothes into his knapsack, swearing.

Ryan’s dad in the doorway.  “Listen here, you can’t-“

Dean shoved past him again.  “Gotta go.  Thanks for the help, asshole.”  He was down the stairs and out the door. 

Back in the Impala, unlocking Sammy from the steering wheel (he left the handcuffs dangling from Sammy’s left wrist though).   “Do up your seatbelt,” Dean said.  Sammy was glaring at him.  He didn’t move.  Dean swore, then buckled Sammy up quickly.  “Don’t be more of a bitch than you c’n help,” he snapped.  They drove rapidly away.

Sammy, glaring.  Then hissing at him.  “You’re a fuckin psycho _freak,_ Dean!  I’ve had it with you!  And I’m not leavin town without knowin Aaron’s okay, so to _hell_ _with this!”_

Dean was _not_ in the mood for this.  “You’re through with that little shit,” he said.  “And all the rest of ‘em.  You’re not seeing them again.”

“What!  I am too!”

“You’re not,” Dean said through his teeth.  “And while we’re on the subject, you’re not doin _anything like this again_ , ever.  You had your chance and you blew it.  From now on, _everythin_ you do is on my call, and I mean _everythin._   No more goin out on your own.  And no more _lookin_ or _talkin_ or _thinkin_ about _anythin_ or _anyone_ without my say.  Are we clear?”

“No!” Sammy shouted at him.  Tears were in his eyes.  “We’re not fuckin clear!  And I am too seeing my friends.  First fucking thing tomorrow mornin!  Because I’m not leaving town!”

Dean, seeing red again.  “You’re leaving,” he shouted back, “because _we’re_ leaving!  _All_ of us, thanks to you!  And you’re with _us,_ Sammy, me ‘n’ Dad!  _Your family!_   _What’s the matter with you!”_

“Nothin!”  Sammy yelled.  “Except that _I’m_ sane and you’re not!  I’m not fuckin _nuts_ like you ‘n’ Dad!” 

“Dad ‘n’ I are _your family!”_   Dean replied harshly.  _“We’re_ the ones that matter, not a bunch of idiot kids who don’t know you from yesterday.  Did you fuckin _forget that?_ ”

“I never forget,” Sammy said furiously.  “How c’n I when you remind me every minute?”

 _“Well you forgot tonight!”_ Dean yelled at him. 

Sammy, staring at him.  Then he said, “Lemme out.”

_“What?”_

“I already told you, I’m not leavin town,” Sammy said in a hard voice.  “So you might as well lemme out.  I’ll go back to Ryan’s, wait for the rest of them to show up.  I c’n meet up with you ‘n’ Dad later.  I’ll call you.”

“Forget it, Sammy.”

“I don’t want to leave.  I like it here.  And doesn’t that _matter_ to you, Dean?  I’m _family too,_ aren’t I?  Don’t _I_ matter?  Or is it just you ‘n’ Dad who get to have a say?”

Sammy and his mouth.  Trying to get through to Sammy with _conversation._   Dean couldn’t win, here.  You’d think he’d know that, by now.

“That’s enough Sammy,” Dean said.  “I’m done talkin about this.  You stay with me, _that_ topic is not up for discussion.   And _I_ have to leave.  So that’s it.  So shut up now.”

“No.”

“Sammy-“ Dean said tightly.  “It’s time to shut up now.”

“No!”

Dean set his teeth.  He drove on, silently.

Then Sammy.  “Lemme out or I’m _jumpin_ out!”

Uh huh.  That sounded like his brother alright.

“Try that ‘n’ I’m _hog tyin_ you, _gaggin_ you _and_ puttin you in the trunk,” Dean said coldly.  “’N’ _that’s_ where you’ll be til we get where we’re goin.  So be my guest if you want.” 

Sammy stared at him shocked.  He opened his mouth.  Closed it.

Dean glanced at him.  Well _that_ seemed to have shut Sammy up.  Finally. 

But Dean was still furious.

At Sammy, dressed like a slut.

He glared at Sammy, that little skirt riding up his thighs.  “What’re you wearin under that?” he asked.  “Not your _boxers,_ that’s for sure.”  His voice was scathing.  Sammy winced.  He looked embarrassed now, shrinking down under Dean’s gaze.  That didn’t make Dean feel better.  “Well?” he snapped.

Sammy was silent.  Dean glanced quickly at the road then back to Sammy.   “I’m waitin,” he said.

Then stared.

Sammy had straightened up in his seat.  He’d crossed his legs _(like a girl’s)_ , gracefully folding them, those long legs, gleaming _._   His head was tilted forward slightly, those large, glamorous eyes on Dean, looking up at Dean through those long lashes of his.  Dean watched as Sammy shifted himself slightly, laying a hand lightly on his own knee.  It was like a girl was sitting there, suddenly.  It was eerie.

Sammy met Dean’s wide eyed gaze calmly.  Then smiled. 

“Panties,” he said. 

All the air left Dean’s lungs.  _“What!”_  

“Dean, watch the _road!”_   A shriek.

Dean swerved through an intersection, almost broadsiding a minivan.  “ _Shit!”_   Horns blasting.

And then,

“Yeah.” Sammy’s voice beside him, calm as if that _hadn’t_ just almost happened.  “Pink ones.”

His voice a smooth whiskey purr, gliding over Dean’s skin.

Dean clenched his teeth.  He was achingly hard suddenly, his cock pressing painfully against his jeans.  “Shut your mouth Sammy,” he said. 

“They’re real silky,” Sammy continued thoughtfully.  Then he crossed his legs the _other_ way, scissoring those thighs under Dean’s nose.   “Not too comfortable though.”  He arched his back and _wriggled,_ squirming his butt against the back of the seat.

There was a pain in Dean’s hands.  He glanced down and saw that he was clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his fingernails had driven into his palms.  He glanced over at Sammy.

The little bitch was staring at him.  _Smiling._   And not a friendly smile.

Dean observed this.  Then he swerved violently, pulling off the main road and onto a quiet neighbourhood street.  Parked.   

Sammy, now staring at him warily.  “…What’re you doin?”

Dean reached out and shoved his hand up under that little skirt.  Felt the panties stretched tight over the warm, hard bulge of his brother’s cock.  That warm nest between Sammy's thighs, that Dean _loved_ putting his hand into, now tightly encased in slick, satiny fabric.  Dean was shaking.

“You put those on for me?” he asked his brother.

Sammy didn’t answer.

 _“You put those on for me, you bitch?”_   Dean was shouting again, he couldn’t help it.

“No,” Sammy said calmly.  He was smiling at Dean but his eyes were ice cold.  “I put them on for Aaron.”

Dean, staring at him.  His whole skin was numb suddenly. 

Sammy smiling.

And then Dean was _on top of_ Sammy, pressing Sammy down with his body, grinding his mouth down onto that hateful, smooth little mouth, Sammy’s mouth mashing against his teeth, Sammy yelping with pain.  Dean didn’t care.  He was going to wipe those words away with his mouth on Sammy’s mouth – by the time he was finished, Sammy’d forget he’d ever said them.

Sammy was struggling, growling.   He wrenched his mouth free.  “Fuck!  Dean, _cut it out!”_

Dean grabbed his jaw.  He was about to kiss Sammy again, when the little bitch drove his fingers like spikes into Dean’s throat.  _“OW!”_   Dean was gagging.

Sammy's seatbelt was off.  He’d opened his door, he was scrambling out.  Dean grabbed him just in time, a hand clamping down over Sammy’s wrist.  He reeled his brother back in, yanked the door closed, locking it.  Sammy was struggling, fighting him hard, kicking and snarling at him.  He head-butted Dean, smashing hard against his nose.  “Shit!”  Dean saw stars.  Sammy’s hand was up, fingers outstretched, aiming for Dean’s eyes.  Dean caught it, just barely. 

 _“Stop it_ you little bitch!”  Dean’s forearm was pressed down underneath Sammy’s chin, on top of his throat.  He leaned on Sammy heavily, his arm like an iron bar against Sammy’s windpipe.   His other hand stayed wrapped around on Sammy’s wrist, his thumb digging sharply into the delicate bones.  Sammy was gagging, struggling.  He opened his mouth, gasping for air, his eyes on Dean, wide.

“Stop fighting me,” Dean said to him.  “ _Stop it_ Sammy or so help me this goes on till you pass out.”

Sammy stopped struggling.

Dean looked at his brother’s eyes, agonized now.  “We done?”

Sammy nodded.

Dean lifted his arm off Sammy’s throat.   Sammy immediately head butted him again.  “ _Ow!”_

Sammy’s fist landed heavily on Dean’s solar plexus.  “Oof!”  Another head butt.  Dean gasped in pain.  He grabbed at his brother blindly, catching him as he scrambled to open the locked door.   Sammy was fighting to get away, viciously, silently, his whole strength going into their silent combat in the awkward cramped space of the car.  Dean struggled to subdue him, concerned now.  Sammy knew how to fight, Dean had taught him.  But Dean was still stronger than him, and heavier, and in this trapped space, Sammy was at a disadvantage.  Except for one thing.  Dean didn’t want to hurt him. 

Sammy brought a knee up, catching Dean painfully under the chin.

 _“Ow!_   _Fuck_ , Sammy!”

“Lemme _go!_ ”  Sammy reached for the car door again.

Dean had had enough.  He grabbed the handcuff chain that was still attached to Sammy’s left wrist and yanked on it violently, Sammy gasping in pain as his arm was wrenched in its socket.  Dean leaned forward, grabbed the shoulder strap of Sammy’s seatbelt with the same hand holding the handcuff chain and pulled it towards him.  Then he grabbed Sammy’s right wrist with his other hand and threaded Sammy’s arm through the loop of the shoulder strap.  Yanked Sammy’s left wrist forward.  Pulled Sammy’s right wrist towards the other handcuff, which was still open from being attached to the Impala’s steering wheel.

Sammy was shrieking.  “No!”  He was writhing, bucking in his seat, trying to hit Dean with his head again.  Twisting his own head to avoid this, Dean wrestled Sammy’s right wrist into the handcuff and snapped it closed, Sammy’s arms now looped around the seatbelt shoulder strap and handcuffed together.  Dean sat back.

“You’re not goin anywhere,” he said to Sammy.  “So stop the shit.”

Sammy was still now, his chest heaving.  He glared at Dean silently.

Dean smiled back at him _(take that you little bitch)._

Sammy glaring, furious.  But then as Dean watched him, his expression changed.  He sat back.  Relaxed his body against the seat.  Dean watched this, wary now.

Sammy smiled.  Then he opened his legs.   

“Those panties…” he said, “they’re real pretty.  Why’nt you have a look?”

Dean’s breath caught.  Sammy’s thighs, gleaming even in the dark car, spread like that.  He hesitated.  Sammy watched him, silent, holding himself still. 

Dean leaned forward, grasped the hem of that little kilt.  Flipped it up.

Saw the panties, pale satin against Sammy’s skin, edged with little bands of white lace.  Sammy’s cock, a hard bulge against the delicate fabric.  “Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He was shaking again. 

“Pretty huh?” Sammy whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  He leaned forward, to put his mouth on top of that bulge, to bite down on Sammy’s cock, to _eat it,_ through the satin barrier of those panties, to devour Sammy’s cock until his brother was moaning, keening, squirming wildly under Dean’s mouth.

“At least _someone_ gets to see them tonight,” Sammy said.  “Didn’t want them goin to waste.”

Dean straightened up.  He met Sammy’s eyes.  They were staring at Dean coldly, like dark stones.

“You _bitch!”_ Dean shouted at him.   “How c’n you say that to me!”  Sammy smiled.

Dean saw this and slapped his brother again, hitting him hard across the mouth.  “Think you c’n just… _tease me?”_   Dean was shouting.  “Think you c’n just _do that?”_

Sammy had put his handcuffed hands on his mouth.  He stared at Dean over his fingers, his eyes filling with tears.  “You fuckin bastard,” he said.  “Feel better, hittin me?”

Remorse was rolling over Dean in waves.  He closed his eyes.  Then opened them again, looked at Sammy.  “Don’t be teasin me,” he said.  “Not about that.”

Sammy was silent.  He’d lowered his hands.  Licked at his lower lip.  Dean stared at this helplessly.  Sammy’s face, those big eyes, their pupils dilated, black.  “Who said I was teasin?” Sammy asked in a low voice.  Those eyes on Dean, ice cold, so dark in the dark car.

Dean stared at him.  He was wordless, motionless.  An image flashed through his mind, his hands around Sammy’s throat, choking him.  Seeing those cold eyes staring up at him, no longer cold, now blind with fear, panicked, and then dulling, blank now in death.

Dean lowered his head, seeing this in his mind.  He stayed still for a moment.  Then put his hand under that kilt again.  Found Sammy’s cock, gripping it through the tight panties.  Sammy was hard.  Dean shaking, feeling this.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth over Sammy’s cock, gliding it over the slick fabric.  _“This_ what you were plannin?” he asked.  “With your little _boyfriend?_ ”  Rubbing.    _“This what you were planning to do with him?”_

Sammy’s breath now hissing through his lips.  He’d arched into Dean’s hand.  “Yeah,” he whispered harshly.  _“Exactly.”_

Dean sat back.  “You little _cunt!”_ he snapped.  And then heard a soft sound.

Laughter.

Sammy was laughing at him.

Dean listened to this, this soft, bitter laughter.  He wasn’t angry, suddenly.  A pain had taken him over, wiping out anger, a tight pain like a burn in his chest, radiating.  _“Why?”_ Dean asked his brother, his voice rising, raw.  “Why are you _doin this_ _Sammy?”_

“Because _I hate you!”_   Sammy yelled at him.  He was glaring at Dean now, his face distorted, all laughter gone.  “I hate you Dean!  You ruined _everything!”_

Dean stared at him, those words dropping into his gut like stones.  Stared at Sammy’s narrow face with its finely carved bones, so bare suddenly with his hair pulled back like that, naked without that tousle of hair Dean was so used to.  Those big eyes, glaring at him.  That mouth.

That mouth, trembling.

“You don’t hate me,” Dean said. 

Silence.

But Sammy’s face in front of him, Sammy’s eyes, glimmering.

Dean reached out again.  Reached between Sammy’s legs, ran his fingers lightly over those panties, stroking up and down over Sammy’s cock.  Sammy’s mouth opened.  “You’re hard for me,” Dean said to him quietly.

Stroking Sammy, lightly, expertly, the way he knew how, the way he knew Sammy liked.

Sammy's face, his expression softening, breaking open.  His eyes, closing slightly.  The parted lips.  “I do,” Sammy whispered.  But his voice wasn’t harsh anymore.  He was breathing rapidly.  His head fell back, exposing the graceful line of his throat.

Dean moved in, putting his lips on that throat.  Kissed the warm skin there.  Stroked Sammy, so lightly, through those silky panties.  “You don’t,” he whispered back.  “You could never hate me.”

Sammy’s breath, shuddering.  “Dean,” he whispered.

Dean, kissing him, kissing his throat, gently, tenderly now, nuzzling under Sammy’s chin.  Stroking his cock, very lightly.  Sammy trembling.

“You love me,” Dean said to him. 

Sammy’s body, trembling.  He was silent.  But then Dean felt Sammy turn his head, pressing his cheek against Dean’s hair.  He put his nose into Dean’s hair.

“You love me,” Dean said again.  A wave of strong emotion crashed through him, almost shattering him.  He closed his eyes, conscious of that tight pain in his chest.  _(Sammy, his baby)._    He cupped the bulge of Sammy’s cock, ran his thumb over the tip of Sammy’s cock, under those tight panties.  The fabric was damp.  “You love this,” Dean whispered to his brother.

Sammy shuddering.  Dean felt his cuffed hands, trapped between their bodies, moving restlessly.  “Raise your arms,” he said.

After a moment, Sammy raised his arms, rather awkwardly, over his head.  “Keep them there,” Dean whispered.

He was kneeling, bent over Sammy’s crotch, his face in front of that hard bulge, that _view_ that Sammy had wanted him to see.  Put his mouth over Sammy’s cock, mouthing him through the panties.  Sammy whimpered.

Dean sucking at him, biting him, eating Sammy liked he’d wanted.  He nuzzled his face into Sammy’s warm crotch, tonguing him, the fabric of those panties soaking wet now, mixed with his saliva and Sammy’s juice.

Sammy was moaning.  He’d arched his back, his cuffed hands behind his head, gripping the back of the seat.  Dean nibbling at him.

Sammy whimpering again.  “Dean,” he gasped.  “Take ‘em off.  Put me in your mouth.  C’mon-“

Dean rubbing his face against Sammy’s cock.  “You don’t get to ask me _anythin,”_ he murmured.  “You just take what you get.”  Mouthing him.

“Dean please-“ Sammy gasped.

Dean mouthing him, _hard_ now, working Sammy’s cock with his teeth and lips, the panties like a second skin now, transparent and wet.

Sammy was writhing, moaning, wriggling helplessly around in his seat.  Dean covered the mound of his cock fully with his mouth, sucked it back as far as he was able, felt Sammy’s cock pulsing under his tongue, pulsing against the tight constraint of the panties.

Sammy keening. 

“Come for me,” Dean whispered to him.  “Come for me, Sammy.”

Sammy shuddering.  But then coming, coming inside those tight panties, Dean tasting his brother’s salty come through the thin cloth. 

Dean sat up.  He looked at Sammy, his brother leaning weakly back against the seat, his arms still bent over his head, his legs sprawled, his wet groin on display.  He reached out, flipped the little kilt back into place.  “You c’n put your arms down,” he said.

Sammy slowly lowered his arms.  Looked at Dean.  Then he held out his cuffed wrists.  “C’n you take these off now?” he asked.

Dean shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “You get to wear ‘em for a bit.”

Sammy blinked.  “For how long?” he asked.

“Dunno,” Dean said.  “I guess until I decide you c’n have ‘em off.”

Sammy looking at him, upset.  “Dean, c’mon-”

“That’s not helping you,” Dean said.  “I recommend you shut up now, let me concentrate on gettin us out of here.”  He leaned over and did up Sammy’s seat belt, buckling him in.  Then reached into the backseat, grabbed Sammy’s jacket from where he’d thrown it down.  Removed Sammy’s cellphone and knife from its pockets, then patted it quickly to make sure there wasn’t anything else in there that Sammy could use to make trouble.  Sammy was looking at him.

Dean covered him with his jacket.  “Don’t want you gettin cold,” he said. 

Sammy, blinking at him.  It looked like his eyes were tearing up.  Dean looked away.  “Let’s get goin,” he said.  Started the car.

They were pulling into the motel parking lot.  Dean saw the dark shape of their dad, standing on the pavement just outside of his room.  “Shit,” Dean said.  Turned to Sammy.  “Don’t move and don’t say anythin,” he said.  “Pretend you’re asleep.”

“Why should I-“ 

“You want _Dad_ seein you like this?” Dean asked him.  “Now close your eyes and shut up.”  Sammy closed his eyes obediently.

Dean parked, got out of the car.  “What’s goin on?” he asked.  “You packed already?”

His dad looked at him.  Then looked over Dean’s shoulder at Sammy, sitting slumped in the passenger seat.   “What’s wrong with him?” 

“Nothin,” Dean said.  “Just passed out.  He got drunk.  Long story.”

His dad snorted, but didn’t seem that upset.  “You boys…” he said.  Shrugged.  “I cn’t go with you,” he said to Dean.  “I cn’t leave the hunt like this.  You’re gonna have to go on your own.”

“What about the car?” Dean asked him.  “How’re you gonna get around?”

“I’ve called Jane, she’s gonna lend me some wheels,” his dad said (Jane was his local squeeze, and a big reason they were _on_ this hunt).   “She’s on her way now, should be here in a few minutes.  You take the Impala, just lemme get what I need out of her.  When the cops show I’ll say you disappeared, took the car, I have no idea where you’ve gone.” 

“What’ll you do?”  Dean asked him.

His dad shrugged.  “Finish the hunt,” he said.  “We c’n meet up, after.  You go to this safehouse, it’s across the state line about four hundred miles from here.”  He handed Dean a piece of paper with directions on it.  “It’s not bad, as these places go.  Got electricity.  ‘N’ plumbing.  Pop the trunk, willya?”

Dean opened the trunk.  His dad was rummaging through it, pulling out various weaponry and other items and putting them into a bag.  “You should get your stuff,” he said to Dean over his shoulder.  “I packed for you, but check the room to make sure I didn’t miss anything cause I thought it was Sam’s.”

“What?” Dean asked him.  “Didn’t you pack for Sammy too?”

“No,” his dad said.  “I figured it was best for Sam to stay here with me.  There’s going to be less heat on me if you don’t _both_ disappear, and Sam’s still a minor, I’m still responsible for him.  Also, he seems to be doin okay at this new school of his, not walkin around with that bitch face like he usually does.  Don’t see why he needs to be disrupted just because _you_ fucked up.  So he c’n stay with me till we join up again.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Sammy’s comin with me.”

His dad sighed.  “Dean, you cn’t just disappear, _with_ Sam.  That _will_ be a problem.  I c’nt just tell anyone who shows up lookin for you that I don’t know where _he_ is and not be concerned about it.  Think straight, son.”

“Sammy’s comin with me,” Dean said.  “’N’ that’s all there is to it.  I’m not leaving him here by himself.”

“He’s _not_ by himself, he’s with _me_ you goddamn idiot,” his dad snapped, angry now.  “You’re bein goddamn unreasonable Dean, creatin this extra hassle for me and takin Sam out of school for no good reason.”

“Sammy’s comin with me,” Dean said again.  “And he’s not goin back to _that_ school, _ever.”_

His dad looked at him.  “What happened?” he asked.

“C’n I tell you later?” Dean said.  “It’s a long story ‘n’ we need to get rollin.  But I can’t see Sammy wantin to go back, anyway.  Trust me on this.”

His dad sighed again.  “Fine,” he said.  “But you owe me an explanation.  A _detailed_ one, for puttin us into this situation.  If you were still Sam’s age, you wouldn’t be sittin for a week.”

Dean grinned at this.  “I know.  I’m sorry Dad.  I’ll make it up to you somehow.”  He needed to get his dad back inside so he could deal with Sammy out of sight, get him changed out of those girl clothes.  No way their dad was seeing _that._   “Why’nt you get your stuff,” he said.  “I’ll deal with mine and Sammy’s.”

His dad had turned away.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’m gonna call Jane, tell her to hurry it up.  Also that I need a place to crash.  Guess I’ll be bunkin with her and her _mother_ for the time bein.  Lucky me.”

“You’re not comin with us?” Dean asked him, surprised.

His dad glanced at him, irritated.  “No,” he said.  “I told you I was finishin the hunt didn’t I?  I guess now I’m just finishin it under cover.  Not much anyone c’n do if we’re _all_ gone.  I’ll follow up with whoever when things settle down, let them know Sam’s with me.  Set the stage to re-enrol him in a new school.”  He was walking back to his room carrying the bag of weapons, already dialling out on his cellphone.

Dean watched him go.  Then went over to the Impala’s passenger side.  Opened the door.  Sammy blinked up at him.  “I’m gettin our stuff,” Dean told him briefly.  “You might as well stay here.  I told Dad you were passed out drunk.  Just keep your eyes closed, in case he comes out before we leave again.”

“Isn’t he comin with us?” Sammy asked.

“Nope,” Dean said, with a certain amount of satisfaction.  “It’s just gonna be you ‘n’ me bro.  And boy, do I have plans for _you.”_

Sammy looked at him, swallowing.  Then said, “Dean…c’n’ I get changed?  I’m cold and…wet.”

“No,” Dean said to him.  “You’re so eager to dress as a girl you c’n stay as one, for awhile.  Looks cute on you.  And I think you need to sit in those wet panties for a bit.”

“Dean, please…” Sammy said.  Blinking up at Dean with those eyes.

“Uh uh,” Dean said.  “You’re in deep shit with me and don’t you think otherwise.  Now you’re gonna sit there like a good boy till I’m back.  Don’t let on to Dad that you’re awake.”

“I have to piss,” Sam whispered.  He looked at Dean pleadingly.

“You c’n hold it till we’re on the road,” Dean said inexorably.  “Now stay still.”  He closed the Impala’s door, walked rapidly to his and Sammy’s room.  His dad had packed for him already, Dean’s bag beside the door.  Dean quickly gathered up Sammy’s stuff (and the lube, which was where he’d left it, buried in the bedcovers), and stuffed it into Sammy’s duffel.  Scanned the room.  Nope, bare.  He was out, walking over to their dad’s room.  Knocked. 

“Yeah.”

Dean entered.  “I’m ready to go.”

His dad was packing, his movements quick and efficient.  You’d never guess he’d been near passed out drunk less than an hour ago.  A stone hunter.  Dean felt a rush of love for him suddenly.  “Take care of yourself, okay Dad?” he said. 

“Yeah,” his dad grunted.  “Get goin son.  I’ve reached Jane, she’s gonna be here in less than five.  Call me when you’re settled.”

“Okay.”  Dean thought about hugging him, but decided this wasn’t the time.  He’d save that for a moment when his dad wasn’t super pissed at him maybe.   He left.

Driving out of town, the dark highway, Sammy beside him, silent.

“You want to piss now?” he asked Sammy.

“Yeah.”  Sammy didn’t look at him. 

Dean pulled over to the shoulder, got out.  Opened the passenger door, leaned in and unlocked the right handcuff, freeing Sammy from the seatbelt.  “Get out.”

Sammy got out of the car.  He stood shivering in the cold, in his skimpy girl clothes.  “You’re not takin off the other one?” he asked Dean.

“No,” Dean said.  “You piss, ‘n’ then I’m lockin you up again.  Hurry up before you freeze.  ‘N’ don’t _think_ about tryin to run away.  We’re in the middle of nowhere and you’re not gonna get far, dressed like that.  Try anythin stupid and you’re in the trunk for the rest of the ride.”

Sammy nodded silently.  He walked a short distance away and took care of business, his back to Dean.  Then walked back.  “I’m ready,” he said.

Dean opened the car door and Sammy climbed in.  He sat silently while Dean locked him to the seatbelt again.  Covered him up with his jacket.

They were on the road.  Dean was wickedly tired but driving on grimly.  Sammy was silent, beside him.

Then Sammy’s voice.  “Dean, you’re not gonna…spank me, are you?  You promised you wouldn’t, anymore.”

“I thought you were asleep,” Dean said shortly.

“I was,” Sammy said.  “I woke up.”  A pause.  “So are you?  Dean?”

“I should,” Dean said.  He glanced over.  Sammy was staring at him.  He looked nervous.

“You deserve the spankin of a lifetime, pullin this stunt,” Dean said.

“But Dean you said you-“

“-Wouldn’t, anymore, I know,” Dean said.  He sighed.  “I’m thinkin Dad was right, after all,” he said.  “If I was still spankin you, this whole thing wouldn’t have even crossed your mind.”

Sammy didn’t argue, he noticed.

“…So you’re not?” Sammy asked him.

“No,” Dean said.  “I said I wouldn’t and I’m not.  We’re gonna deal with this in another way.”

“What other way?” Sammy asked him.

“I’m not sure,” Dean said.  He didn’t say anything else.  Glanced over again.  Sammy was still staring at him. 

“Go to sleep,” Dean said.  “Rest up, for whatever you’ve got comin.”

“Dean, please,” Sammy said.  Tears were in his eyes now.  “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Sure,” Dean said.  “You just didn’t think.  About anyone but yourself.  But _that’s_ nothin new, is it Sammy?”

“That’s not true,” Sammy whispered.

Dean snorted.

They drove on in silence.

They’d pulled up to a tiny, dilapidated wooden shack, in the middle of a clearing of overgrown grass, populated with rusted cars and other heaps of odds and ends, indiscernible in the darkness.   With relief, Dean saw a power line connected to the roof, as well as a crooked TV antenna.  Noted the tin chimney pipe.  Heat, light and entertainment.  Hopefully their dad had been right about the plumbing too.  This was better than he’d expected, given that the shack was at the very end of a dirt road, at first running through a series of farmers’ fields, stubbled and bleak in the cold, and then several miles of scrubby forest.  The country around them had been black and silent for miles, only sparsely dotted with houses, dark and lifeless in the early hours of the morning.

Dean and Sammy sat in the car, looking at the shack. 

“How does Dad _come up_ with these places?” Sammy asked eventually.

“Dunno,” Dean said.  “But he’s got a whole lot of stuff in his back pocket we don’t know about yet, and you shouldn’t forget that about him, Sammy.  You’re always underestimatin him.”

“Well he underestimates _me,”_ Sammy said resentfully.  Dean grinned.  That was true, actually.   “I’m checkin it out,” he said.  Got out of the car, pulling out his gun.  “Honk the horn if you need me.”

“Dean, don’t leave me tied up like this,” Sammy said to him.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean said.  “I c’n be back in like, two seconds.”

He was inside the shack, retrieving the key according to the instructions his dad had written on the paper.  Turned on the (one) light, a dim lightbulb, screwed into a socket in the ceiling.  Looked around.  Immediately saw the old salt lines on the threshold and windowsills, the warding signs scrawled on the walls, ceiling and floor.  Hunter’s hideout alright.  There was a cast iron stove in one corner of the room, with a stack of cut wood next to it.  Battered cupboards over a chipped counter and sink.  Dean turned on the water, it ran brown at first but then cleared.  An ancient fridge, but it lit up when Dean opened the door.  Nothing in there.  Well, they could get some food, Dean would do a run, tomorrow.  He looked quickly in the cupboards.  Canned soup, coffee.  Candles and matches.  Bags of rice, pasta and powdered milk.  And _bonus,_ a dusty bottle of whiskey, not Dewars, but _something._    Dean turned around.  Surveyed the small room, a couch in front of an ancient TV, must be a sofabed, Dean didn’t see a bed anywhere.  A door at the far end of the room.   Dean peered in.  A tiny bathroom, just a sink and a flush toilet (and bonus for that, too).  Well, they could wash up with a bucket on the floor, not the first time they’d done it. 

A decent little hideout, alright.

Dean exited the shack smiling.  Walked over to the Impala, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans.  Opened the passenger door.  “Got us a honeymoon suite Sammy,” he said.  “Out you get.”  He unlocked Sammy from the seatbelt.

Sammy climbed stiffly out of the Impala.  Stood there, shivering. 

Dean picked up the open handcuff.  Held it out.  “Back on,” he said.

“Dean please-“

“Back on,” Dean said.  He wasn’t smiling now.

Sammy put his wrist back into the handcuff.  Dean snapped it closed.  Then he grasped Sammy by his upper arm and steered him around to the Impala’s trunk.  Popped the trunk.

Sammy shivering.  “Dean, I’m cold-“

“I’ll just be a second.”  Dean was rummaging around in the trunk, keeping one hand on Sammy.  Pulled out a coiled metal chain and two padlocks.  Sammy looking at this, his eyes widening.  “What’s _that_ for!”

“You’ll see,” Dean said.  He steered Sammy into the shack.  “Sit down.”  He indicated the couch.  Sammy sat down slowly, his cuffed hands on his lap.  Looked up at Dean.

Dean came over, the coil of chain in his hands.  He shook it out, the chain clattering heavily onto the floor.  Then he padlocked Sammy’s cuffed hands to one end of the chain.  “Stand up,” he said.  Sammy stood up obediently.  His mouth was trembling, Dean noticed.  Dean pulled the couch open, unfolding the pull-out mattress.  Tested it with his hand.  “Not bad.  We’ve slept on way worse than this.”

“Dean, what’re you-“

“Quiet.”  Dean was reviewing the metal frame of the sofabed critically.  Selected a bar and padlocked the other end of the chain to the bar.  Turned back to Sammy.  “Chain’s long enough you should be able to get around,” he said.  “Go to the bathroom ‘n’ such.  You c’n go now if you want.  Try it out.”

Sammy stood there looking at him, forlorn.  “Dean, please.  Don’t do this.  C’mon.”

Dean refused to be sympathetic.  Sammy had brought this on himself, acting like a slut.  A _runaway_ slut.  “I’m gettin our stuff,” he said.  “Do whatever you want.  At least I know you’re not goin anywhere.”  He left.

When he came back, carrying his and Sammy’s bags, Sammy was in the bathroom, the door partially closed. 

Dean put their bags down.  Headed over towards the cupboard containing the bottle of whiskey.  Cracked it open and took a healthy swallow, the warmth immediately entering his veins, awesome.

Then he turned his attention to the stove.  Seemed okay, clear of dirt and debris.  The shack was old and shabby but surprisingly clean, given the way it looked from the outside.  Dean stacked logs and kindling into the stove, lit it.  The stove roared to life, the room quickly warming up.

Sammy was out of the bathroom.  Dean had found a stack of folded sheets, a couple of pillows and a quilt in a wooden chest.  He was making up the bed.  He heard Sammy come out (that chain, rattling) and turned around. 

Sammy had washed the makeup off his face and taken out the braids, his hair now falling over his shoulders in its familiar silky tousle.  His tie was gone, as well as the borrowed men’s dress shoes and kiddie porn knee socks, but he was still wearing his white shirt, undone now, open over his bare chest and stomach, and the little kilt.  He was frowning.

“Dean I can’t take this shirt off unless you uncuff me,” he said.

Dean shrugged.  “Oh well,” he said.  “Guess I’m cuttin it off you, then.”

Sammy stared at him, wordless.  Dean stared back.  Sammy, standing silently in the dim, shabby room.  “Great legs,” Dean said.  “Never noticed them quite like _that_ before.  Seein you in a whole new light, Sammy.”

Sammy’s mouth trembling.  “Dean, let me get changed,” he said.  “Please.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Why shouldn’t I get to enjoy the sight, just like _everyone else?_ You c’n stay dressed as a girl, for now.  Or naked, I have no problem with that either.”

Tears were in Sammy’s eyes.  “You’re bein a real asshole,” he whispered.

Dean shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I guess you bein a _slut_ has brought out my bad side.”

Sammy stayed motionless, staring at him.  He looked exhausted and upset, with his hands cuffed in front of him.

Dean saw this.  But he then also saw something else.  He saw why Sammy had done this.

“You knew what you looked like,” Dean said to him.  “You knew it when you went out like that, didn’t you?”

Sammy staring at him.   “Yeah,” he said eventually.

Dean watched his brother, watching him.  Sammy was tall now, he realized suddenly.  Nearly as tall as Dean.  Slender still, but not childish anymore, not at all.  And his face.  For years, Sammy had looked younger than his age.  A boy, even after they had started this thing.  SamSam.  SammySam.  Sammy.

 _(Baby)_  

But not now.  He looked different now.   A lot older, suddenly.  No longer a boy.  No longer the Sammy of Dean’s mind.

His beautiful brother, standing there silently.  Sam.  Sammy, growing up.

Dean took another swig from the bottle of whiskey.  Put it down.  Walked over to Sam, standing there.  Sam met his gaze, silently.

“You knew you looked so hot,” Dean whispered.   His hand was on Sam’s leg, stroking it.  The feel of Sam’s leg, that skin, like satin over steely hard muscle.  “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  His eyes on Dean.

Dean, stroking him.  “This feels incredible,” he said.  “You did this at Ryan’s?”

“No,” Sam said.  “Not me.”

Dean felt a wave of fury run through him.  “Who then?” he asked.

“Carla,” Sam replied.

“That whore,” Dean said.

“Don’t call her that,” Sam said.  He met Dean’s gaze evenly, daring him to say something else.

But Dean wasn’t angry anymore.  He was stroking Sam’s leg, distracted by the feel of that skin.  “What were you thinkin, when you let her do this to you?” he asked.

“I was thinkin how much you would like it,” Sam said softly. 

Dean was pleased.  “Yeah?” he said.  Stroking.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “And then I got real turned on.”

Dean was running both hands over Sam’s thighs now, standing very close to him, Sam’s breath brushing him.  “You did?” he said absently.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  “I got hard, thinkin of you, touchin me…like this….” Tears were in his eyes and then on his cheeks.  He made no move to wipe them away.

Dean saw this but it didn’t register.  He was crouched down now, in front of his brother, his hands running over Sam’s smooth thighs and calves.  He ran his hands up the backs of Sam’s thighs, up under that little skirt, cupped Sam’s ass, tight and round under the cool silk of the panties.  He put his face against Sam’s warm inner thigh, kissed him there. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered.

“...Yeah?”  Dean said.  His face was buried against Sam’s thigh.

“Take the kilt off,” Sam whispered. 

Dean reached up, undid the little buckles fastening the kilt, one on either side of Sam’s waist.  It fell away, leaving Sam standing in the open shirt and pink satin panties.  Dean looked up.  His eyes widened. 

Sam standing there _,_ Dean’s tall beautiful brother, that silky brown hair falling to his shoulders, those hard, smooth muscles under gleaming satin skin, those pink panties snugged over his slim hips.  The bulge of his cock. 

Sam’s eyes, gazing down at Dean gravely.

“ _God,”_ Dean whispered.  He was standing, his arms tight around Sam, kissing him, devouring Sam’s mouth.  Sam had opened his mouth.  Dean thrust his tongue into that hot mouth, Sam sucking on it.

Sam’s cuffed hands were trapped between their bodies, a barrier.  Dean stepped back, grasped Sam’s upper arms and walked him backwards to the bed.  “Lie down.”  He pushed Sam down gently.

Sam lay there, looking up.  “Raise your arms,” Dean said to him.  Sam raised his arms obediently over his head.  Then he raised his mouth. 

Dean was on top of him, kissing Sam’s mouth, thrusting his cock against Sam’s satiny groin.  His face on Sam’s throat, on Sam’s chest, Sam’s smooth chest, Dean rubbing his cheek against it.  “God, Sammy-“

“I did my underarms too,” Sam whispered.  Dean yanked the shirt aside, exposing a white, hairless underarm.  Rubbed his lips over it, fastened his mouth against it.  Sam gasped.

Dean tonguing him, licking him, licking that smooth skin, Sam writhing and then Dean’s mouth on Sam’s nipple, sucking on it, biting it, Sam gasping, making those soft little sounds that Dean loved. 

Dean got up off the bed.  Looked down at his brother, laid out before him like a feast.  Sam’s eyes on Dean, quiet.  Dean pulled off his own clothes and retrieved the lube from Sam’s duffel.  Came back to the bed. 

His hands on those panties.  “Lift up.”  Sam lifted his butt obediently.  Dean peeled the panties off, pulling them down his brother’s legs and tossing them aside.  Looked at Sam’s hard cock, long now, like the rest of him.  Put his mouth on it, Sam’s smooth cock, taking it in, curling his tongue around it, Sam gasping, arching off the bed.

Dean worked that cock for awhile then sat up.  Looked at Sam gazing back at him, his eyes half closed, hazy with pleasure.  “Raise your butt up,” Dean said softly.

Sam raised his legs, turning his butt up under Dean’s gaze, his silky dark little asshole exposed.  Dean lubed him up quickly, pushing two fingers in, Sam closing his eyes as Dean rubbed him expertly from the inside.  Then he positioned himself between Sam’s legs and pushed in, entering him quickly, deeply, Sam rolling his head back and gasping raggedly, biting his lip in that way he had, Dean on the brink of coming just looking at that.

And then Dean pounding into him, balanced over Sam on his forearms, dipping his mouth to find Sam’s mouth, slipping his tongue into Sam’s mouth, Sam keening now, the sound muffled against Dean’s mouth, and trembling, those smooth internal muscles tightening around Dean impossibly and then they were coming, both of them, both of them breaking apart under the brutal onslaught of pleasure, that impossible, exquisite, familiar pleasure, riding over both of them.

Dean lying on top of Sam, sprawled between his legs, his head pillowed in the comfortable hollow of Sam’s abdomen.

Sam’s voice.  “Dean, can you uncuff me now?”

“No,” Dean said drowsily.

Sam.  “Please. _”_

“No.”

“Why _not?”_

“You tried to run away,” Dean said.  “’N’ I want to get some sleep without worryin you’ll be here when I wake up.”

“…I’m sorry I did that,” Sam said, after a moment.  “I didn’t mean it.  I was mad at you.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  He continued to lie on his brother.  Then he felt Sam shifting under him, restlessly.  “Dean you’re heavy.”

Dean rolled off him.  Looked at Sam, still lying stretched out on his back, his arms over his head.  “Turn on your side,” he said.  Sam turned obediently onto one side, curling his forearms towards him, his cuffed hands in front of his face now.  The chain attached to his handcuffs was lying across the bed, partially underneath him.  Dean got up and moved the chain out of the way, arranging his brother more comfortably.  He shoved a pillow under Sam’s head.  Then covered him with the quilt.  Stood over Sam, looking down at him for a moment, Sam’s curved shape, under the covers.  Dean smiled.  Then he went and checked the door.  Locked, a decent lock on it, actually.  He checked the salt lines, refreshing them.  Put more wood into the stove.  Placed his gun within easy reach, under their bed.  Turned off the light.  Went back to the bed and climbed in, settling in behind his brother, curving himself around Sam’s warm back.  Dropped an arm over Sam’s body, stroking a finger over Sam’s curled hands.  Touched the silver ring that Sam always wore now, on the ring finger of his left hand.  Dean’s ring.  Dean kissed Sam on his silky nape.  Smiled against his skin. 

Sam lay quietly under Dean’s arm.

Dean drowsing now.

Then Sam’s voice.  “So when’re you gonna take them off?”

Dean pulled himself back from the edge of sleep.  “When I c’n trust you again,” he murmured absently.

“…You never trust me,” Sam said.  His voice was bitter.

Dean opened his eyes.  Considered this.

Sam had a point.  But they could discuss this later.  Like in a few hours, when Dean wasn’t past the final stages of exhaustion.  He closed his eyes again.  “Uh huh.”

“You never did,” Sam continued.  “Not in the way I trust _you.”_   Bitter.  Like this was _Dean’s_ fault, somehow. 

Dean sighed.  He wasn’t up to more conversation with Sam at this particular moment.  Not that he _ever_ was, to be honest. 

He closed his eyes again.  “C’n we talk about this later, Sammy?” he asked.

 _“…Later,”_ Sam replied.  “Sure.  Why not?”  He sounded reasonable.  Too reasonable.

Dean sighed.  “I’m too tired for this Sammy.  Tomorrow, okay?”

Sam was silent.

Dean put his lips against Sam’s neck.  His brother, lying next to him.  All snuggled up with Dean.  Maybe they’d fuck again, first thing tomorrow morning.  Talk after, over breakfast.  Come to an understanding about Sam’s behaviour, going forward, achieve some clarity on what was acceptable.  And then Dean would accept Sam’s apology.  Collect some gratitude from him, for being generous and taking off the handcuffs, ending Sam’s punishment (Dean was looking forward to that).  And then they’d have a few days together, in this remote little place.  Just him and Sam.  Dean smiled.  He wanted to see Sam in those panties, again.

But then Sam.  “You always cut me off,” he said.  That bleak, bitter voice.  “You’re such a bully, Dean.  You’re not gonna be able to shut me up forever.”

Dean sighed.   Forget sleeping, not with _that_ voice, echoing in his ears.  “Fine,” he said.  “Say what you’re gonna say.” 

“You’re always expectin me to _prove_ somethin,” Sam said.  “It’s not fair.”

“Who said life was fair?” Dean asked him.

“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam said.  “I don’t ask _you_ to do that, for _me._   It’s not a fair deal.”

“What isn’t?” Dean asked.

“You, expecting me to _show_ you all the time that you c’n trust me,” Sam said.  “ _I_ never worry about _you._   _I_ trust _you._   You ask me to and _I do._   I _never_ give you a hard time about…about the stuff _you_ give me a hard time about.  It’s not _fair,_ Dean.  Why can’t you just _trust me,_ the same way I trust you?” 

Dean was silent, thinking about this.

Sam was right, he realized.  It wasn’t a fair deal.  But…not in the way Sam apparently thought.

Sam’s trust for him.   A given.  Because Sam _knew._

He knew Dean loved him completely.

That bone deep knowledge of Dean’s love for him.

_(I’m here for you till the day I die)_

Sam growing up with that.  A given, from Dean.  Taken for granted.  By both of them.

Sam taking it for granted.  So secure in that knowledge he didn’t even think about it.  Took it as a right.

That Dean would always be there.  Always Sam’s.

And that was okay.  Because it was true.

Sam was _it,_ for Dean.  He was just _it,_ everything, Dean’s final number.  And Sam knew it, Dean never tried to hide it from him (which would have been impossible anyway).

Sam, taking Dean’s love for him for granted.  Trusting it, like gravity.

And Dean accepting that. 

Because it defined him.  It was _him._

Dean loved Sam completely.  And Sam knew it.  That was their deal.

And Sam was right.

It wasn’t fair.

“You never worry about me because you don’t need to,” Dean said.  “You _know_ you can always count on me.  I _show you,_ every minute of every day.  That I’ll just…be there for you, no matter what.  But I don’t know that about _you._   So you tell me.  Is _that_ fair?”

Sam turned around, looked at him.  “How can you say that?” he said.  “I do too show you.  You just don’t see it.”

Dean blinked.  _Seriously?_

Sam, always with one foot out the door.  Always threatening to leave, whenever he got mad.  Whenever something wasn’t going _his way._ The first time Dean had kissed him, he’d been threatening to leave, Dean remembered.

Dean was furious, all over again.  At Sam, torturing Dean with this whenever he wanted.  Rubbing it in Dean’s face, the possibility of him leaving.  That he was even _thinking about it._   Considering it an _option._   That it was his _choice_ to stay with Dean (for now).  Did Sam not see this as a _problem?_    

For Dean, never a choice.  But for Sam, always.  Sam, always one decision away from destroying Dean’s life.

And Sam didn’t see this as a problem?

“I don’t understand where you’re coming from,” Sam said.  “It’s frustrating.”

Dean, furious.  “You tried to _jump out of the car,_  just a few hours ago,” he snapped.  “And you almost chose that dumb kid over me.  So _now_ do you understand where I’m coming from _?”_

“I was mad, Dean, I told you I didn’t mean it,” Sam said, casual about the fact he’d been doing his best to _cripple_ Dean, not so long ago, trying to escape.  “And I _didn’t_ choose Aaron, I left with _you,_ remember?  And he’s not dumb,” Sam added.

Somehow, this little speech didn’t make Dean feel better.  “You were thinkin about it,” he said shortly.

Sam didn’t argue, he noticed.

But then Sam said, “I wasn’t thinkin about it the way you mean.”  His voice had softened. 

“…So what do I mean, then?” Dean asked him.  _Did_ Sam see Dean’s side of things?  Dean really wanted to know.

“Tell me,” Dean said.

He was hopeful suddenly.  Maybe Sam got it after all.

And if Sam _got it_ …maybe he’d realize who was truly being unfair, here.

 _Maybe_ …he’d wake up.  Do the right thing and finally show Dean what he needed to see.  Show Dean finally, that he understood.

What was fair. 

Give Dean the words that would make things right.

_(I’m here for you till the day I die)_

And fix things, between them.  Once and for all.

Dean waited.

“You’re worried someone’s gonna replace you for me,” Sam said.  “Some day.”

Well, yeah, Dean did worry about that.  But that wasn’t the _main_ thing.  Didn’t Sam see?

He waited.

“No one could ever replace you,” Sam said softly.

Well… _that_ sounded okay.

He waited.

Silence.

“And?” Dean asked him.

“…And what?”  Sam asked.

“And what else?” Dean said.

“What do you mean, what else?” Sam asked.

Dean still waited, hoping Sam would say more (I mean, he’d obviously been _asked_ to say more…)

Silence.  Sam gazed at him inquiringly.

“That wasn’t the answer I was lookin for,” Dean said, eventually.  He felt heavy with disappointment.

Sam sighed.  “What _were_ you lookin for then?” he asked.  He sounded irritated.  Like _Dean_ was the moron, here. 

“Somethin else,” Dean said briefly.

“What?”

“You’re gonna have to figure that one out on your own,” Dean said.  “Use that… _brain_ of yours.”

“And why should I have to do _that?_ ” Sam asked him.  Now he sounded mad.

_(Because I need to hear the words from you, Sammy, from your own mouth.  It’s important) _

“You seriously…askin that?”  Dean said.

“Yeah!” Sam snapped.  “Why should I have to do… _anything_ here _,_ Dean?  Why do I have to always pass some _test_ with you?”

“It’s not a test,” Dean replied.

“Well what is it then!”

“A request,” Dean said quietly.

“What, to read your _mind?”_ Sam snapped.

“I guess so,” Dean said.

“Well you’re requesting too much,” Sam said.  “Like always.”

Sam, hurting Dean with his words.  Like always.  And not too worried about it either.  Taking for granted that he could do it.  Like hurting Dean was his right.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dean said.

Sam stared at him.  Suddenly he was twisting his hands around in the handcuffs, uselessly trying to free himself. 

Dean watched this, his chest aching.

“This isn’t fair,” Sam said, after a moment, his voice stifled.  He lay quietly now.

“I agree,” Dean said.

Sam glared at him.  “To hell with you, Dean.  You’re not gonna accept anything I say anyway.”

“I’ll accept the answer I’m lookin for,” Dean said.  “Give me that.”

“So what _is it?”_ Sam asked.

Dean sighed.  “If I have to _give_ you the answer Sammy, it’s worthless to me.  See how that works?  And you know what I want to hear, anyway.”

“Know _what!”_   Sam snapped.

“What makes this whole deal fair,” Dean said.

Sam’s ribs were heaving.  He looked wildly frustrated.  He abruptly turned his back on Dean and moved away from him on the bed, awkwardly pulling his body forward with his cuffed hands.

Dean reached out to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Sammy.  Don’t-“

“Don’t touch me,” Sam said coldly.  He didn’t turn around.  Dean dropped his hand.

“Don’t freeze me out, Sammy,” he said.  _“You’re_ the one who wanted to have this conversation.”

“Well this conversation is over,” Sam said.  “I can’t give you the answer you want.”

Dean closed his eyes.  “Can’t or won’t?”

Sam snorted.  “Can’t, won’t, it’s all the same thing.  I _gave_ you my answer and you didn’t accept it.  So fine.  You’ll just have to live with no answer at all.”

Dean felt dangerously angry, suddenly.  Killing mad, at Sam, expecting Dean to just take this.  To _live_ with this, like he had for _years,_ this painful uncertainty Sam inflicted on him so thoughtlessly. 

When he had the power to make things right.  With just a few little words. 

“You _know_ what I want you to say,” he said grimly.  “You just won’t say it.  Because you’re a selfish little bitch, Sammy.”

“Yeah, that’s your default, isn’t it?” Sam hissed at him.  “Sammy the selfish little bitch.  Always about to do you wrong.  Well I’m _through_ trying to prove different, Dean!” 

“You want those cuffs off, you’re gonna _have_ to prove different,” Dean snapped.  He was beyond angry, now.  He stared at his brother’s silky back, afraid to touch him, afraid to put his hands on him.  He willed Sam to turn around, to look into his eyes.

To look into Dean’s eyes and wake up.

_(I was an asshole, Dean, I’m real sorry.  I love you, I need you, I’m always gonna be here for you, I'd never leave you, please don’t worry about that ever again, okay?  You know you’re everythin to me.  I'm yours, Dean, forever)_

Sam didn’t turn around.  “No,” he said quietly.  “That’s not how we’re doin things, anymore.” 

“Then the cuffs stay on,” Dean said.


	34. Chapter 34

Sam was roused from a groggy sleep by the growl of the Impala pulling up outside.  He opened his eyes.  Daylight was seeping in from behind drawn, tattered curtains.  The room was cold, the wood stove in the corner dark and silent, its fire spent.

He was lying on his side, his cuffed hands curled in front of his face, the covers wrapped tightly around him.  He was stiff and cramped.  He turned onto his back, wincing.  Stared at the closed door of the shack.

He heard doors slam on the Impala.  Then steps outside.  The door of the shack opened.

Dean entered, carrying a bunch of plastic grocery bags in one hand and a carton of beer in the other.  He flicked on the overhead light.  His eyes went straight to Sam.  “You’re up.”

Sam glared at him.  “You left me here, tied up like _this?”_

Dean set the groceries and beer down on the battered table.  He shrugged.  “You were fast asleep and I wasn’t gone more than a couple hours.  I made sure the fire was out before I left.”

“What if somethin happened to you and you couldn’t get back?” Sam snapped at him.  “I’d die out here.”

Dean shrugged again.  “Dad knows where you are,” he said.  “He’d be along, if somethin happened to me.  And anyways, I can’t see those cuffs holdin you forever, if you were really stuck out here.  I mean, they wouldn’t hold _me._   They’re just on to slow you down so I don’t have to keep my eye on you every minute.”

“Well what if someone came by!”  Sam snapped.

Dean smiled.  “I left you your gun.”  He gestured to the coffee table pushed to one side of the bed.  Sam’s handgun was on it.  “Pretty soft Sammy, you didn’t see it right away.”

Sam leapt for his gun.  It was in his hands, pointed at Dean.  “Unlock me.”

Dean stood there looking at him, not smiling now.  “You’re gonna shoot me Sammy, you shoot me dead,” he said.  “My own brother turns on me in cold blood, I’m not gonna want to live after that.  So if you make that move, do us both a favour and make it a final one.”

Sam’s hands were shaking.  He lowered the gun.  “Goddamn you, Dean.”

Dean walked over and removed the gun from Sam’s hands.  Put it back in Sam’s duffel.  “Well, looks like I’m gonna live today,” he said.  “There’s more groceries in the car, I’ll be back.”  He left the room.

Sam glared after him.  Then got up and stomped to the tiny washroom, dragging the chain after him.

Dean was back in the room, putting the groceries away.  He’d bought a lot of food.   Sam paused in the doorway of the washroom, watching Dean load up the ancient fridge with milk, bread and eggs and other perishables, stack the cupboards with cans.  “How long are we staying?” he asked.

“A week, maybe two,” Dean said.  “Depends on if your little boyfriend presses charges and how long it takes Dad to finish the hunt.”

“How is he?” Sam asked.  “Aaron I mean.  Did you find out when you called Dad?”

Dean glanced at him.  Sam was abruptly conscious of standing there in nothing but the handcuffs and the white dress shirt. 

“He’s fine,” Dean said, after a moment.  “I asked Dad to check on him and he called the kid’s house pretending to be a cop.  Your boyfriend was there.  He’d gone to emerg but he was already home.  He’s got a busted rib and a black eye, but other than that he’s fine.”

Sam closed his eyes briefly.  He’d been pretty worried about Aaron.  He looked at Dean again.  Apparently Dean had registered the relief in Sam’s expression.  He was scowling. 

“Guess you’re happy about that,” Dean said.

“I am,” Sam said.  Dean’s scowl darkened.  “Aaron didn’t deserve to get beat down like that,” Sam said.  “I’d’ve felt really bad if he’d been seriously hurt.  I was worried.”

“I know,” Dean said shortly.  “That’s why I asked Dad to call.”

“Thanks Dean,” Sam said quietly.

Dean was putting the groceries away again, not looking at him.  “Yeah.”

“Did Dad find out if Aaron is going to press charges against you?” Sam asked.

Dean looked at him.  His eyes were cold now.  “His parents want to apparently, but lover boy hasn’t made up his mind,” Dean said.  “And I guess _he’s_ the one who’s gets to make that call.  Little fuck.”

“Don’t call Aaron that,” Sam said.  “He-“

“-Don’t say his name again!” Dean snapped.  “I don’t want to hear it, understand me Sammy?  You’re _forgettin_ about him and all the rest of them!”

Sam looked at his brother.  Dean’s face was stiff, like he was trying to keep his expression under control.  Sam considered this.  Then said, “Yes Dean.”

Dean glanced at him suspiciously.  Sam smiled at him.  Then he held his cuffed hands out.  “C’n you please take these off now Dean?  I promise I’ll be good.”

Dean gazed at him a moment longer.  Then snorted.  “Nice try.”  He finished putting the groceries away, ignoring Sam now.

Sam stood there for a moment longer.  Then walked over to his duffel bag, knelt down and looked inside.  Looked up at Dean.  “Where’re my clothes?”

“In the car.”

_“Why!”_

Dean shrugged.  “I thought we covered that last night.”

Sam was upset again.  “Dean I can’t go all day in just this!” 

“Why not?” Dean said.  “Looks pretty good from here.”

Sam glared at him.  He sat down on the bed, covering himself with the quilt.  “It’s freezin in here, Dean, c’mon,” he said.

“I’ll get the stove goin.”  Dean went over to the stove and built up the fire.  Sam watched him silently from the bed. 

Dean was finished.  “You hungry?”

Sam thought about ignoring him.  If anyone deserved the silent treatment, it was Dean.  On the other hand…when had _that_ ever got Sam what he wanted (other than making Dean super upset, of course).  He sighed.  “I guess.”

“I’ll scramble up some eggs.”  Dean was at the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl.  He put a pot of water on the stove to boil.  He had the bread out, buttering it, laying the slices down on the hot surface of the wood stove.  He poured the eggs into the cast iron frying pan he’d found and stirred them with a fork.  His movements as he cooked were brisk, competent, and so familiar from the zillion times Sam had watched him cook.  Sam watched him now, an ache in his chest. 

“You know, I could help, if you’d uncuff me,” he said.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, smiled at Sam briefly.  “You don’t have to do anythin princess.  You just sit there and look pretty.”  Sam scowled.  Dean grinned back at him and winked.

The food was ready.  Sam came and sat down at the table, uncomfortably conscious of his naked groin and bare butt on the cold seat of the chair, eating awkwardly with his cuffed hands.  Dean sat across from him, eating calmly.  He’d poured out coffee for both of them.

“So…you’re just gonna leave me like this?”  Sam asked him.  He was sipping his coffee carefully, holding the hot mug in both hands.

Dean kept eating.  “Yup.”

“All _day?”_

“Sure.”

“So when are you gonna take them _off?”_

“I dunno.”

“This is ridiculous Dean, you can’t keep me cuffed forever.”

“I didn’t say forever.”

“So _when,_ then?  I want to know!”

“Well, they’re not comin off any faster you nag and bitch at me about it, I c’n tell you that much.”  Dean shovelled a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Sam sat there, seething. 

“I’m not gonna be able to do stuff for myself, you keep me like this,” he said.  “You’ll have to do it all for me.  You thought about that?”

“Yup,” Dean said.

“Like wiping my _ass_ the next time I take a shit,” Sam said sarcastically.  “Which is gonna be shortly.   I can’t reach behind myself like this.  You up for _that,_ Dean?”

Dean grinned.  “I’ve wiped your ass before,” he said.  “Plenty of times.  You just don’t remember.  Who do you think did that for you before you learned how?  Think it was _Dad?”_   He took a sip of his coffee.  Then looked at Sam, his face serious now.  “It was me, Sam.  I looked after everythin.”

Sam felt his shoulders slump.  “Well you don’t have to now,” he said quietly.  “Can’t we just move on?”

“Move on to what?” Dean asked him.

Sam looked at him, perplexed.  Dean raised his eyebrows.  “Well?” he asked.

Sam had nothing to say.  It occurred to him that Dean had a point.  Dean and him, sitting across from each other, inhabiting this moment in time.  And then to move on to what?   He didn’t know.

Sam stood up.  “I’m taking that shit now,” he said.  Turned away from his brother and made his way towards the washroom.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Dean called after him cheerfully.  Sam turned around glaring and gave him the finger.  Dean grinned.

After _that_ was over with (and it was just as embarrassing and awkward as you’d imagine), Sam lay down on the bed again, folding the blanket over his mostly naked self.  Watched Dean morosely as his brother washed and put away the breakfast dishes and put more wood on the stove.

“No hot water,” Dean said to him conversationally.  “I’m gonna heat us up some wash water on the stove Sammy, both you ‘n’ me could use a bath.  Specially you.” 

“Fuck off,” Sam muttered.  Dean grinned again.  He filled a large pot with cold water from the sink and placed it on top of the wood stove.  Then dragged the old washtub into the centre of the room.  Looked at it critically.  “Looks okay.”  Wet a rag under the tap and wiped the washtub down.

“You’re such a housewife,” Sam said to him (not in a complimentary way).

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  He didn’t sound offended.  “Someone has to be.  Sure as fuck isn’t you or Dad.”  He’d picked up the clothes Sam had gotten from Megan from where they were left on the floor, the little kilt, the knee socks and the…panties.  Held the panties up in front of his face.  _“Whew_ these are skanky.”

“Well why’nt you wash them then, _housewife?”_ Sam asked him sarcastically.

Dean looked at him.  “Any more of that mouth and you’re gonna be wearin these on your head for the rest of day,” he said.  He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

Sam swallowed.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

“But that’s the idea,” Dean continued.  He tossed the other clothes on top of Sam’s duffel and took the panties over to the sink.  Squeezed some dishsoap onto them and rinsed them out under the tap.  Then hung them over the back of one of the chairs.  “When these dry we’ll put them back on you,” he said.  He was smiling.

Sam felt a jolt of warmth run through his body, in spite of himself.  “You liked me in those, huh?” he said.

Dean’s eyes on him.  “Yeah,” he said.  He wasn’t smiling now.  “Too bad it happened the way it did.”  His eyes were sad.  Sam saw this and looked away.  “Nobody saw them on me but you,” he said defensively. 

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Dean asked him.  “After what you said to me last night?  After I ruined your… _plans?”_

“…I didn’t have any plans, Dean,” Sam said after a moment.  “I was just sayin that to hurt you.  I’d never’ve done anything like that with Aar – with anyone but you.”

“Well you did hurt me,” Dean said quietly.  “Congratulations.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. 

“Sure,” Dean answered.  He sat down at the table again.  Gazed at Sam.  He seemed to be expecting Sam to say something else.

“I was just fucking with you,” Sam continued after a moment.  “Because I was mad.  I didn’t mean it.”

Dean looked at him.  “Uh huh.”  He was quiet.  Then asked, “Did you enjoy fuckin with _him_ too?”

“…What do you mean?” Sam asked him.  “I wasn’t doing anythin like that.”

Dean snorted.  “Don’t lie to me Sammy, I’m not stupid,” he said.  “You sure as hell didn’t dress up in girl’s clothes for me.  You knew I’d never allow you to go out like that.  And you knew if I caught you there’d be hell to pay, you looked real guilty when I showed up last night.  Nah.  You were doin it because you decided for some reason to tease that poor bastard.”

“I never- “ Sam began, but Dean interrupted him.  “- Don’t give me that!  I _saw_ the way that little shit was actin around you!  Leanin against you, nuzzlin up against you, puttin his hands on you-” his voice rose.  “- _protectin you from me,_ like he had a _right to,_ that spoiled little fuck- “

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam protested.  “You’re readin things into-“

Dean was over by the bed.  He reached out and gripped Sam’s chin with one hand.  Sam stared up at him, wide eyed.

“I’m not stupid and neither are you,” Dean said coldly.  “Look at me and tell me that wasn’t happening.”

Sam swallowed.  “Dean, you were actin fuckin scary.  _Anyone_ would have reacted like he did.”

Dean kept looking at him.  “I don’t think so Sammy,” he said.   “I think you got that poor bastard good, just like you meant to.”

Sam couldn’t hold Dean’s gaze any longer.  He lowered his eyes.

“The question is… _why,”_ Dean continued thoughtfully.  He released Sam’s chin and sat down beside him.  _“Why’d_ you suddenly decide to turn yourself into a slut.  Did you have that in mind as soon as I said you could go to the dance?”

 _“No,_ Dean!” Sam said.  “I didn’t have anything in mind like that.  It was…last minute.”

“Last minute.  Huh.”  Dean was quiet.  Then asked, “So then… _why?”_

Sam looked at him.  Dean looked back.  He was waiting.

Sam sighed.   Dean, sitting there.  Waiting. 

“It started out as a dare,” Sam explained.  “I wasn’t goin to do it but then Aaron began givin me a hard time.  Raggin on me.  Just like Dad does, you know?  So I decided to give him some pay back.”  He glanced at Dean warily.

“Well I guess you did,” Dean said eventually. 

“Yeah,” Sam replied. 

“I’m _glad_ I knocked him out cold,” Dean said.  There was a vicious tone in his voice.

“He didn’t deserve that, c’mon,” Sam answered.  “You over-reacted.”

Dean wasn’t paying attention.  “Dissin you,” he continued.  “And _then_ feelin you up…thinkin he could put his hands on you.”  He looked furious again.  “In _front_ of me.”

“…Well…I mean…you’re my _brother_ Dean, not my boyfriend,” Sam said reasonably.  “How was Aaron supposed to know any different?” 

Dean looked at him.  Then suddenly he grabbed hold of the chain attached to Sam’s handcuffs.  Yanked it sharply, pulling Sam’s arms over his head.

 _“Ow!_   Hey-“

Dean had pulled Sam down to lie flat on the bed.  He was leaning over him, glaring down.  “Your _brother,_ huh.”  He was speaking through his teeth.  _“That’s_ the way you look at things, huh Sammy?  Pretty convenient all of a sudden.”

Sam stared up at him.  Said, “Well you _are,_ Dean, what’s that supposed to mean?  What’re you– _OH!”_

Dean had buried his face between Sam’s legs.  He’d taken Sam’s cock deep into his mouth, sucking back on it hard. 

“ _Dean_ …omigod…” Sam was gasping.  He clutched his hands against Dean’s hair.  Dean continued to eat his cock, engulfing it with his whole mouth, his lips and tongue scraping exquisitely against the sensitive flesh, a sharp tingling pleasure suddenly taking Sam over.  His head fell back.  He bucked helplessly into Dean’s mouth.  Felt tears rising.

Dean’s mouth on him.  Dean knew what he liked.  At this point he could play Sam like an instrument.

Dean had raised his head.  “You like what your _brother_ is doin?” he whispered.  He looked up at Sam’s face.  “You like it, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  Tears, stinging his eyes.  Watching Dean, that hard, beautiful face, smiling up at him now.  But not a warm smile.  Dean looked angry.  Then he bent his head again.  Took Sam’s cock back in his mouth.

Playing him, like an instrument.  Sam rolling his head.  Biting his lip against the ecstasy, rising.

This wasn’t fair.  He was angry too.

“Dean…” Sam whispered.  “Lemme put you in my mouth.”

Dean didn’t look up, didn’t pause.  But Sam knew he’d heard him.  He yanked on Dean’s hair.  “Dean!  Lemme, let me…”  Dean’s tongue, rasping him.  _“Oh…”_

Then Dean releasing his cock.  Looking up at Sam from his place between Sam’s legs, a considering dark green stare.  Taking in Sam’s expression, his parted lips.  “Dean,” Sam said.  Meeting Dean’s eyes then speaking, with some difficulty, through the haze of his own pleasure.  “Let me…c’mon…”

Dean held his gaze a moment longer.  Then he stood up, pulled off his jeans and shorts.  Clambered back onto the bed beside Sam.  Turned himself around to put his cock against Sam’s face, his own face buried between Sam’s legs.  His cock nudged Sam’s lips.  “Go on then.”  His voice was hoarse.

Sam turned onto his side, moving awkwardly with his cuffed hands.  He took Dean’s cock into his mouth, sliding his tongue around its hot, silky length.  Heard his brother’s breath hiss.  Sam closed the back of his mouth delicately over Dean’s cock, enfolding the tip of Dean’s cock, letting it rub against the smooth roof of his mouth.  Dean was gasping.  Sam ran the tip of his tongue along the length of Dean’s cock, the roughness of his tongue against the fine skin.  He fitted his lips around Dean’s cock.  Moved his head back and forth.

Dean was shuddering.  _“Sammy-“_   He moved his hips, thrusting into Sam’s mouth.  Sam let him slide in a bit further, then closed his mouth tight around Dean’s cock, sucking back, his brother’s cock held so tightly in his mouth now, Sam’s hot, slippery mouth, glove tight like he knew how to make it, his lips fitted so tightly around Dean’s cock, the strong, practiced muscle of his tongue curled around that cock, rubbing, probing the flesh of Dean’s cock.

Dean moaning, his ragged voice, a low, rough sound.  Sam listened to that sound as he fed on, as he _worked_ Dean’s cock, working it the way he knew how.

Sam knew what Dean liked, too.

Dean, shuddering.  Sam felt the brush of Dean’s hair between his legs, Dean’s cheek, rough with stubble against the tender skin of his groin.  Dean’s lips opening again, seeking out Sam’s cock.  Sam shifted away, moving his cock deliberately away from Dean’s mouth _(not yet)._ He felt Dean’s cock expanding in his own mouth, pulsing under his tongue, Dean close to coming, now. 

Sam released Dean’s cock, turned his face away.

Dean’s voice.  _“Sammy!_   You can’t-“

Sam put his tongue out, licked Dean’s cock gently.  Kissed it, his lips soft against Dean’s cock, the hot flesh throbbing.  Dean’s voice.  _“Sammy…god…”_   His cock, thrusting hard against Sam’s closed mouth.

“You take care of me,” Sam whispered against his brother’s cock. 

“…What?”

“You _take care of me,”_ Sam repeated.  He heard the anger in his own voice.  _“That’s_ the way I look at things.  Since you want to know.  And no, it’s not so fuckin convenient.”  He thrust his own cock against Dean’s lips.  Felt Dean’s mouth open automatically, taking him in.  Sam thrust hard into Dean’s mouth, his cock hitting the back of Dean’s throat.  Dean pulled back slightly.  Sam thrust into his mouth, again.

“But that’s what you do,” Sam said.  His mouth was against Dean’s cock, opening against it.  Mouthing it, Dean shuddering.  “Who you are," Sam continued.  "To me, I mean.”  He drew away again, kissed his brother’s cock carefully, his lips brushing the skin, so lightly.  Dean moved his head between Sam's legs in silent protest.

“Since that's what you were  _really_ askin,” Sam said.  He was nuzzling, licking Dean’s cock now, stroking it luxuriously with his tongue _._   Heard Dean’s muffled moan.  “My big brother...” Sam whispered.  He was licking, mouthing Dean’s cock, Dean moving helplessly against him.  "Takin care of me," Sam whispered to him.

Dean, shuddering, silent, his mouth locked around Sam's cock.

“Open up,” Sam whispered.  He thrust into Dean’s mouth _hard,_ felt him gag.  “I’m gonna fuck your mouth, big brother,” he said.  Thrust his cock deep into the warm cave of Dean’s mouth, felt Dean struggle with it but then adjust, accommodating it, his mouth closing strongly around Sam’s cock, Sam momentarily motionless with that new pleasure.  “Yeah,” Sam whispered.  “Like that.   _Take care of me, Dean.”_

And then his mouth was around Dean’s cock again, taking it in, devouring it, his hot mouth closed tight and deep around Dean’s cock as he fucked hard into Dean’s mouth, Dean shuddering, his mouth on Sam a little sloppy now, struggling to manage the long length of Sam’s cock even as pleasure took him over.  And then crying out, Dean crying out, the sound muffled around Sam’s cock, Dean coming into Sam’s mouth even as Sam moaned and thrust into Dean’s mouth a final time, spilling his come into Dean’s mouth as he sucked down hard on Dean’s cock, swallowing his brother’s salty come, drawing Dean’s cock so hard and tight into his mouth, and Dean dying for him -Sam could feel it, Dean dying for him, of pleasure, the way Sam could make him do that, the way Sam knew he liked.

The two of them lying together, their bodies still curved into a loose, sweaty oval.

Dean’s head, heavy on Sam’s thigh.  His hand on Sam’s hip, stroking. 

“You ready for that bath now?”  Dean asked him.

Sam didn’t answer.

“…Sammy?”  Dean’s hand stroking.  “The water’s boiling.  I’m goin to make you a bath now okay?”

“Uncuff me first,” Sam said.

Dean’s hand stilled.  “No.”

“Then don’t talk to me like everythin’s normal,” Sam said.  His voice was cold.

Dean sighed.  Then he got up, dressed himself again.  Looked down at Sam while he was buckling his belt.  “This _is_ normal,” he said quietly.

Sam stared at him.  He sat up.  “What!”

“This _is_ your new normal, Sammy,” Dean said.  “So get used to it.”

_“…Why?”_

Dean shrugged.  “Because every instinct I’ve got is sayin to me if I uncuff you, you’re out the door as soon as I turn my back.  And I don’t feel like spendin all day chasin you down.”

“Dean…” Sam said desperately.  “You’ve made your point, okay?  I’m sorry I tried to run away last night.  I didn’t mean it, I _told you_ that.  I was upset.”

Dean looking at him.  “You tried real hard,” he said.  “For someone who didn’t mean it.  Nearly poked my eyes out, tryin.”

Sam looked away. 

“…You’re tellin me you wouldn’t have done it, wouldn’t have taken off, just left me there?”  Dean asked him. 

Sam said nothing.

“Don’t lie to me Sammy,” Dean said.  Sam glanced at him, saw Dean’s raw expression.  He looked away again.  “If I’d run, I would’ve come back,” he muttered.

“But you’d still have run,” Dean said.

“Well…yeah, I guess,” Sam said.  “But not _permanently,_ Dean, c’mon.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better how?” Dean asked him.

“Because I’d’ve come back,” Sam said helplessly.

“Yeah?”  Dean said.  “When?  For all I know, if I hadn’t cuffed you when I did, you’d be cuddled up with one of your little _friends_ right now, hiding from me, with me turning the city upside down lookin for you, goin out of my mind.”

Sam looked down.

“Don’t tell me that wouldn’t’ve happened,” Dean said in a hard voice. 

“I would’ve come back eventually,” Sam said.  He was staring down at his cuffed hands.

“Yeah, after you’d decided you’d tortured me enough,” Dean said.  “After you decided you’d had enough _fun_ for the time bein _,_ playin the field.”

Sam said nothing.

Dean stood there, quiet, watching him.  Sam could see he was waiting for something again.  Something else.  Something more.  Depression crashed over him in a black wave.  Dean _,_ always watching him, waiting, _needing._...from him _,_ ever since they’d started this secret journey together, the two of them wandering, lost together in _(my/Dean’s body)_ this dark, secret landscape.  Dean’s raw need for something, something _more,_ no matter what Sam did.

_(Sammy.  Be what I want)_

And Sam, trying.  Trying his best, for his brother, all these years.

_(I’ll do anythin you say)_

“You’re right,” Sam said. 

“What?” Dean asked.

“I would have run,” Sam said.  “To Aaron.  Or Carla.  Hid out with them for awhile.”  He glanced up at Dean.  His brother was standing frozen, staring at him.

“Who knows when I would have come back?” Sam said.  He shrugged, smiled briefly.

“You bitch,” Dean said tightly.

Sam shrugged again.  “I’m bein honest,” he said.  “That’s what you _wanted,_ right?”

“…So you’d have let me go nuts,” Dean said.  “Lookin for you.  Worryin.”

Sam looked at him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Sorry.”

Dean was silent.  Then said, “And you’d run now if I uncuffed you.  First chance you got.  Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.  Depends.  I’d have to think about it.”

Dean glared at him.

Sam met his eyes.  “Anythin else I said, I’d be lyin,” he said.

Dean, silent. 

Then he said,

“I want to hit you.”

“I know,” Sam said. 

Dean looked down.  Sam could see it in Dean’s mind, him hitting Sam, pounding him down. 

“You’re thinkin I deserve it,” Sam said.  “Teach me a _real_ lesson.”

“Shut up Sammy,” Dean said tightly.

“So soft on me, all these years,” Sam said thoughtfully.  “And now you’re payin the price.  Just like Dad said.”

“Your fuckin mouth,” Dean whispered.  His face was tight with distress.  He’d closed his eyes.  “You gotta stop, Sammy.  I c’nt take that from you and you know it.”

“Now who’s soft?” Sam asked him.

“Shut up!” Dean said.  “Shut the _fuck up!_   You _want_ me to start hittin you, Sammy?”

“You start hittin me,” Sam said, “because you can’t take what you hear, it won’t stop till I’m dead.”

Dean opened his eyes, looked up.

“You know that,” Sam said.

Dean said nothing.  His eyes staring at Sam, raw.

“You want that?” Sam asked him.

Dean looked down again.  “No,” he said quietly.  His face twisted.

“Now _you’re_ lyin,” Sam said.

“I’m not,” Dean whispered.  “I’d never, Sammy.  Never want that.  Don’t say that.”

“Well… _prove it then!”_   Sam said harshly.  He was breathing hard.  He felt what he’d just said rise up into the air, circling over him and Dean on a rush of black wings.  He watched Dean, looking down. 

He felt bad for his brother suddenly.

Dean stood there, frozen under Sam’s words, his face masked with pain.  But Sam didn’t reach out to him, didn’t try to make things better.  He couldn’t.  Wouldn’t, not like this, with his cuffed hands.

Eventually Dean turned, walked over to the stove.  Removed the pot of water, now boiling briskly.  “I’m givin you that bath,” he said over his shoulder. 

Sam watched him, silent.

Sam sat naked in the metal washtub, his legs draped over the side, heels resting on the floor.  The bath water that Dean had mixed for him had risen warmly around his waist, covering his butt, belly and groin.  Dean was wiping down his bare shoulders with a threadbare dishtowel, sudsy with soap, scrubbing under Sam’s arms, running the towel over his back (Dean had taken his knife and cut the sweaty dress shirt off Sam without comment, his knife slicing easily through the worn old fabric). 

Sam sat quietly in the warm water.  His cuffed hands were in his lap. 

“Lean forward Sammy, I want to wash your hair,” Dean said.  Sam leaned forward, bent his head.  Dean took the pot that he’d heated the water in, dipped it in the washtub, then poured the warm water over Sam’s head.  Sam closed his eyes.

Dean was rubbing shampoo into his hair.  “Close your eyes again Sammy, I’m gonna rinse,” he said.  More warm water, poured over Sam’s head.  Then again.  And then a towel, wiping Sam’s face gently.  “All done, Sammy.”

“C’n I get up now?” Sam asked.

“Not yet,” Dean said.  “There’s something else I want to do first.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean smiled, a bit uncomfortably.  Then he was over at the counter.  A plastic grocery bag was still there, that he hadn’t unpacked.  He picked it up, brought it over to Sam.  Crouched down on the floor beside him.  Took a package of double bladed disposable razors and a can of shaving cream out of the bag.  “I like you shaved,” Dean said.  “I want to keep that goin.”

Sam laughed incredulously.  “You serious?”

“Yeah.”  Dean was squirting shaving lotion onto Sam’s left leg.  “If that girl could do this, so c’n I,” he said.  He started shaving Sam’s leg, his brow furrowed with concentration. 

Sam, watching him.  “That’s gonna be a lot of work,” he said.  “Keepin it goin, I mean.”

 _“Girls_ seem to have no problem with it,” Dean said.  “I figure between the two of us, we c’n manage.”  He’d started on Sam’s right leg now. 

“You’re fuckin weird,” Sam said to him.  Dean grinned.  “And you’re not, little girl?” he said.  But then the grin faded from his face.  He ran a hand along Sam’s smooth calf.  Sam felt the rub of Dean’s hard palm over his sensitive, newly shaven skin.  His lips parted, involuntarily.  He looked at Dean.  Dean was staring back at him, the green eyes dark now.  He rubbed his hand down Sam’s calf again.

“You liked bein a girl, Sammy?” Dean whispered.  His hand, slowly gliding over Sam’s skin.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  He was staring at Dean helplessly.

Dean was quiet.  Then he leaned forward and kissed Sam on the mouth.  Put his tongue into Sam’s mouth.  Sam opened his mouth, receiving Dean’s mouth on him, Dean’s beautiful mouth, that Sam would picture sometimes, in his mind.

_(Dean)_

Dean broke the kiss, sat back.  Reached out and stroked Sam’s face gently.  His eyes were tender.  “You were givin everyone the finger, dressin up like that, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Tears were in his eyes suddenly.  Dean understood him.  Dean had understood.

“Especially Dad,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  His voice was definite.

“Payback,” Dean said.

“Uh huh.”

Dean’s hand was on his throat, stroking.  “And me too, I guess.  That was payback for me too.  Right, Sammy?”

“No,” Sam said softly. 

Dean looked at him.

“That wasn’t payback for you,” Sam said.  “It never would be.”

Dean had stopped stroking him.  He was listening.

But Sam didn’t say anything else.  He couldn’t, suddenly.

“Why not?” Dean asked him eventually.

Sam, silent.

“Sammy?  Why wasn’t it payback for me too?”

“Because...I knew you…loved me,” Sam said.  He was choked, he could barely speak.  “Didn’t matter that I was different.”  He gestured at himself.  “Not what Dad wanted, you know?” 

Dean in front of him, motionless.  Listening.

“You loved me anyway,” Sam whispered.  Tears were in his eyes, on his cheeks.  “I always knew that,” he said.   He looked down. 

Dean was quiet.  And Sam didn’t look at him, couldn’t, right now.

“You loved me anyway,” he repeated.  He was aware of a great sadness behind those quiet words, a sea of tears, vast and quiet.

_(Sam and Dean in a shabby room, quiet around them finally except for the echo of their dad’s voice, that bleak harsh familiar sound.  The sad rage of their dad, echoing.  And Sam, crying quietly.  And then Dean holding him.  And then Dean’s voice. “S’okay Sammy I’ve got you okay?  You’re okay.”)_

Years of that.

“So I’d never say ‘fuck you,’ like that,” Sam continued after a moment.  “By dressing like that.  Not to you, I mean.  You were never like anyone else.  Never like Dad.”

Dean was quiet.  But then he said, “I love you now.  Sam.  It’s never gonna be past tense.”

Sam’s eyes were closed.  “I know,” he whispered.

Dean, quiet.  Then he said, “Raise your arms, I’m doin your underarms too.”

Sam opened his eyes.  Looked at his brother. 

Dean nodded at him.  "Go on," he said.

Sam looked at him.  Then raised his arms cautiously.  “Don’t tickle me,” he warned.

Dean grinned.  “I’ll try not to,” he said.  

Sam eyed the razor warily.  “I’m _serious,_ Dean.”

“You should be,” Dean said.  “Don’t want to be foolin around with _this.”_   His thumb was on Sam’s underarm, pulling the skin taut.  The razor, scraping.  Sam set his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut.  Concentrated on staying still.  Dean’s voice.  “Now the other one.”

“Hurry up,” Sam hissed.  Heard Dean laugh.

Dean was done.  “All finished Sammy.  You c’n stop holdin your breath.”

Sam opened his eyes.  Stared up at his brother, standing there, the razor in his hand.  “C’n I get up now?”

“Sure.”  Dean put the razor down on the table, leaned over Sam.  Carefully helped him get up out of the water, Sam awkwardly finding his balance.  Handed Sam a towel.

Sam dried himself, watched Dean stripping off his clothes.  “I’m washin up too,” Dean said.  “Water’s still okay.”  He glanced at Sam briefly.  “You get back on the bed,” he said.  “Cover yourself up.”

Sam stared at him. 

Thought about what Dean had said, just now.

_(I love you now)_

_(Sam)_

Sam held out his cuffed hands mutely.  Dean stared back.  Then he shook his head.

Sam sighed.  “I’m brushin my teeth first,” he said.  Turned away.

Sam was back on the bed, covered with the quilt.  He watched as Dean quickly wiped himself down, dunked his head in the bathwater, shampooed his hair.  His blonde, naked brother was a compelling sight, even crouched over a metal bucket like an ape.  Sam sighed again.  He rolled over, turning his back.  Buried his head under the covers.

Dean was finished.  Sam heard him dump out the washtub.  “Sammy.”

Sam didn’t answer.  Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, Dean would go away.

The covers were pulled off his head.  “Sammy.”

Sam turned over, scowling.

Dean was dressed again, damp hair slicked down. 

 _“What?”_ Sam asked him grouchily.

“I’m goin outside,” Dean said.  “Have a look around, chop up some more firewood.”

“…So what am I goin to do?” Sam asked him.

“You’re gonna stay on the bed, like a good boy,” Dean said to him.  “Here’s the book you were readin.”  He tossed Sam’s latest library book onto the bed ( _Shogun_ , by James Clavell).  “And here.”  He brought Sam’s gun over to him again.  “You call for me if you need to, or shoot that off.  I won’t be far.”  He was putting on his jacket.

Sam picked up his book, looking meek.  As soon as Dean was out of the room he was going to hunt for a nail or wire or _something,_ to get him out of these cuffs.

Dean’s eyes on him.  “You start lookin around for something to get you loose, you’re gonna piss me off,” he said.

Sam blinked.  “I wasn’t-“

Dean shook his head at him.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just remember Sammy, I c’n tie you up tighter than that.  You want to be flat on your back, spread-eagled, you just let me know.”

Sam glared at him.  Dean smiled, looked at Sam meaningfully, then left, the door slamming behind him.  The lock clicking.  Sam stared at the closed door in frustration, then surveyed the small, shabby room.  He could still search for something.  But Dean, outside.  Not far, he’d said.  Would Dean _really_ tie him hand and foot if he caught Sam trying to escape? 

Sam thought about the events of the last few hours.  It was possible.  Sam sighed.  He’d have to wait until Dean was gone out on another supply run, he couldn’t take the chance of being caught right now.  Not with Dean in his current mood.  Sam flopped down on the bed and picked up his book.

Dean had been gone for over an hour. 

Sam had finished his book (he was the fastest reader he knew).  There was another book in his duffel ( _The Stand_ , by Stephen King), but he’d read it before, didn’t much feel like picking it up right now.  Sam turned on the ancient TV.  One channel, fuzzy.  Sam turned it off.  If Dean kept him prisoner like this much longer he'd go insane with boredom.   He got up, visited the washroom, then walked around the room, testing the limits of the chain.  He was able to reach the sink, but couldn’t quite make it to the front door or the stove.  Which wasn’t roaring anymore, the fire died down.  The room was getting cold again.  When was Dean getting back? 

Sam went and sat glumly on the bed, covering himself with the quilt.  This was just great.  Locked away in this shack, naked, chained to the bed, for _days_ maybe, their dad not coming any time soon.  Dean’s sex slave.  Sam snorted.  He ran his gaze over the small room again, already drearily familiar.  His eyes fell briefly on the panties Dean had draped over the chair to dry.  His only available clothing.  Sam snorted again.

But then his eyes went back to the panties.  Considered them.

Dean was back.  Sam heard the sound of an axe, splitting wood outside.  It went on for quite some time (how much wood did Dean think they _needed_ here?).  But then quiet.  Then Sam heard the sound of the Impala’s trunk opening and closing.  Then more quiet. 

Steps outside the door.  The lock rattling.  Sam stayed where he was.  He heard the door open.  He didn’t look up.

Dean’s voice.  “Sammy-“ 

Then nothing.

Silence.

Sam didn’t look up.  He kept reading, turned a page idly.

He heard Dean’s slow steps, crossing the room.  A load of wood, dumped on the floor with a clatter.  Then steps again.  The door shutting, the click of the lock.  Sam’s breath was coming faster.  He stayed where he was, lying on his stomach on the bed, propped up on his elbows, reading his book.  He didn’t look up.

Steps behind him.  Then Dean’s hoarse voice.  “Sammy-“

Sam didn’t look up.  “Wash your hands,” he said.  Turned a page.  “They’re probably filthy.”

He heard Dean go over to the sink, the water running.  Then steps behind him again.  They halted behind the bed.  Sam didn’t look up.  He read his book.

“Sammy.”  Dean’s voice.  Sam heard the tension in it.  He felt Dean’s eyes on him, a tingle all along his skin.  Dean’s eyes, taking in the sight of Sam lying on his stomach on the bed.  Naked, except for the pink satin panties.  Sam kept reading his book.

“Sammy.”  Dean sounded like he could barely speak.  Sam heard this with satisfaction.  He didn’t look up.  Turned a page.  “Look at me,” Dean said.

Sam glanced casually over his shoulder.  Saw Dean standing there, motionless, still with his jacket on.  He was pale, his expression shattered open, his eyes fixed on Sam.

Sam met his gaze calmly.  “Yeah?” he said.

Dean opened his mouth.  Closed it.   

Sam raised his eyebrows.  “What?” he asked.

Dean’s mouth was set in a thin, tight line.  His hands were on his jacket, tearing it off, tossing it to the floor.  Then he was beside Sam on the bed, running his hands over Sam’s back, over his butt.  His hands on Sam’s butt, curving over the cheeks of Sam’s butt, the flesh tingling under his touch, under the tight silky material of the panties. 

“Dean!” Sam said, making a point of sounding surprised.  “What’re you-“

“Shut up, Sammy, you know what I’m doin,” Dean muttered.  His hands, cupping Sam’s butt, _feeling_ it, Sam’s warm flesh under the cool silky material.  Sam was breathing with difficulty, his breath shuddering in spite of himself.  He was rock hard, his cock pushing uncomfortably into the bed.  He felt the material of his brother’s jeans, rasping against his legs.  Then Dean was _on top of_ him, straddling him, hard arms on either side of him, his lips on Sam’s back.  He’d pushed the bulge of his cock against Sam’s butt.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.   “You put those on for me?”  His lips were on the side of Sam’s neck now, nibbling at him.

Sam had closed his eyes.  “Maybe,” he whispered back.  He felt Dean smile against his skin. 

“Maybe?” Dean asked him.  He bit Sam’s neck lightly.  Sam shuddered.

“They were the only things you left me to wear,” he said snappishly. 

Dean laughed.  “Good call on my part,” he said.  He was off the bed, standing again.  Sam started to turn around.  “No,” Dean said.  He was pulling off his shoes.  “Lie down like you were.”

Sam lay back on his stomach again.  His insides felt fluttery and tense.  He listened to Dean undressing, behind him.

Then the weight of Dean, joining him on the bed.  His brother’s hands on his legs.  “Dean-“

“Shh.”   Dean’s hands, rubbing him.  “God, you’re like silk, Sammy.  I cn’t get enough of this.”  Dean’s strong fingers, digging deliciously into the muscles of Sam’s calves, his thighs.  Continuing upwards. 

Cupping Sam’s butt, kneading it.  Sam’s forehead dropped onto the bed.  His cock, throbbing under him.  He moaned, involuntarily.  Dean patted him.  Then he said, “Up on your knees.”

Sam slowly got up onto his knees.  Arched his back.  “That’s it,” Dean whispered.  “Get that little butt in the air for me.”  A hand on Sam’s back.  “Higher.”  Sam tilted his butt up slowly, his balance uncertain with his hands cuffed in front of him.  “Yeah,” he heard Dean say.  “Perfect.”  A hand on Sam’s butt, rubbing.  Then between Sam’s legs, grasping his cock.  Strong fingers and thumb, rubbing the tip of Sam’s cock.  Sam gasped.  “Like that huh?”  Dean’s voice.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.

Then he felt Dean’s mouth on his butt.  Dean bit him softly through the material of the panties _.  “Dean-“_ Sam gasped softly.  Dean’s lips, nuzzling against the crack of his ass now, finding Sam’s asshole underneath the panties.  His tongue, stabbing at it.  Sam moaned, in frustration this time.  That sensation, teasing him unbearably.  He pushed his butt up seekingly against Dean’s face.  Dean laughed again.  “You’re such a hot little bitch Sammy,” he said.  But his voice was warm.  His face against Sam’s ass, nuzzling.

”Dean,” Sam gasped.  “C’mon-“

“What?”  Dean nuzzling.

“Fuck me,” Sam whispered. 

“Sure,” Dean whispered back.  “Anythin for my princess.”  His hand, stroking Sam’s cock under the panties, gliding up and down the silky material.

Sam gritting his teeth.  _“Now_ Dean,” he said.  “What you waitin for?”

Dean had moved away from him.  Sam glanced back over his shoulder.  “Dean, what-“

Dean’s voice, cool now.  “Face front, Sammy.  There’s somethin we have to take care of first.”

Sam turned back reluctantly.  “What-“  And then a sharp smack on his butt.  _“Ow!”_

“That’s what you get, Sammy.”  Another smack.  “For bein a tease.”

“Dean that’s not fair!” Sam exclaimed.  “You said you wouldn’t spank me anymore!”

Dean, laughing.  “You call this a spankin?  I’m just warmin you up a bit.  It’s your own fault Sammy, for treatin me to _this_ sight.  _Askin for it,_ seems to me.  So what do you say to that?” 

Sam bit his lip.  He’d thought about this, how Dean might react, and couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. 

His stomach, fluttering.

He tilted his butt up.

There was a silence.  Sam had a sense of Dean staring at him, breath shallow.  And then Dean’s hand descended again, spanking him.  Sam winced.  But then he tilted his butt up again.  There was another pause.  Sam held himself motionless, his butt tilted high in the air.

Dean spanked him again.  Then a few more times.  Sam was gasping now.  Dean spanked him one more time, then laid his hand flat on Sam's stinging cheek.  “Good enough,’ he said. 

“So much for your promise,” Sam said.  His butt was burning and he wasn’t about to let Dean off _that_ easily.  His cock was rock hard though and throbbing. 

Dean hooked one finger under a leghole of the panties and snapped them against Sam’s skin.  “Don’t give me that,” he said.  “You were askin for a spankin the minute you put these on and you know it.  And from now on, anytime you wear these or somethin like them, that’s how I’m gonna read it.  Fair warnin.”

Sam didn’t acknowledge this.  But then he wriggled his butt under Dean’s hand.  “You made it sore,” he said.  “Rub it.”

Dean’s hand on him, rubbing him.  “Sammy,” his voice had roughened.  “God…”  Then his face, nuzzling against Sam’s stinging butt.  “You drive me so crazy,” he muttered.

“You don’t have far to go,” Sam said to him. 

Dean laughed.  Then he was pulling the panties down, settling them carefully around Sam’s knees.  He leaned forward, his mouth hot on the soft skin around Sam’s asshole, tickling.  Sam wriggled.  Dean’s hand on his butt, steadying him.  “Stay like that,” Dean muttered.  “I’m gettin the lube.”

And then two slippery fingers, entering Sam, pushing in deep without warning.  Sam yelped.  Nearly toppled.

Dean’s hand on him again.  “Careful.”

Sam was annoyed.  “This isn’t comfortable, Dean.”

“Guess not,” Dean didn’t sound concerned.

“I’m havin trouble _balancing,_ here.”

“Uh huh.”  Dean’s fingers, inside him again.  Rubbing.

 _“Oh…”_ Sam gasped involuntarily.  He tilted his butt up.  Pushed back against Dean’s hand. 

Wobbled dangerously. 

“Dean, c’n you just-“

“Sshh, Sammy, you just concentrate on not fallin over.”

Boy… _that_ was sensitive.

“You’re a jerk,” Sam spat at him.

Heard Dean laugh again.  Then he was kneeling up behind Sam, his hands on Sam’s hips.  “And you’re my little bitch.”  Reached up, stroking a finger lightly over Sam’s nipple.   Sam shivered.  He felt Dean’s cock, probing between his legs.

Dean whispered, “You ready for my cock, little bitch?”  Stroking his nipple, circling it.  Sam was melting.  “Yeah,” he whispered back. 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  His fingers were on Sam’s asshole, widening it.  Then he was pushing in.

Sam grit his teeth.  After all this time, it was still overwhelming, the sensation of being entered, stretched out like this.  And then the awareness of Dean, doing this to him.

“Still uncomfortable?”  Dean murmured softly.  He was fucking into Sam now, pushing his cock into him deeper and deeper, with deliberate, controlled strokes.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Then added sarcastically, “Gettin fucked in the ass isn’t _comfortable_ , Dean _.”_

“Uh huh.”  Dean’s voice was a little ragged.  He was speeding up, his cock pounding into Sam’s ass now.  “You love it though, huh Sammy?”  Thrust into him hard, hitting Sam on that deep, good spot.  Sam gasped.  “You love it,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  He was pushing back against Dean’s cock, his back arched, straining.

“My hot little bitch,” Dean whispered.  He was fucking Sam hard now.  One hand came up between Sam’s legs, grasped Sam’s cock, working it with strong fingers, slick with lube.  Sam moaned.  He felt himself start to break apart, to shatter under that pleasure, building.  His body was trembling.  He shifted himself slightly, rolled his head.  Wobbled again, balanced precariously on his bound arms.

Dean grabbed his hair, pulling his head back.  “Ouch!”

“Stay still,” Dean said roughly.  He fucked deep into Sam’s ass again, a sharp shock of pleasure following.

Sam moaned.  “You’re an asshole,“ he said.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  His cock was deep in Sam’s ass now, hitting that spot over and over, ecstasy striking like sparks.  His hand on Sam’s cock, working him expertly.

Sam whimpered, hating the sound, even as he heard his own voice.  He was always so helpless under Dean’s touch, finally, it wasn’t fair. “I’m so _pissed_ at you _,”_ he whispered.  But his ass was pushed back, pushed hungrily against Dean’s cock.

“Yeah, heard that one before too.”  Dean fingers and thumb circling over Sam’s cock, slickly rubbing.  Dean’s breath had started to shudder.  “Come for me Sammy,” he whispered.  Pulling on him, working him, pounding into him, Sam trembling, convulsing around Dean’s cock.  _“Oh-”_

 _“_ Your sweet ass…god…” Dean muttered.  “C’mon baby…”

Sam felt the pleasure rising, a deep wave rising up inside of him, taking him over.  His voice, keening.  And then coming, his cock spurting into Dean’s hand, feeling Dean release at the same time, Dean’s hoarse voice, “ _Sammy,”_ and then Dean bent over Sam’s back, his lips on Sam’s skin.

Sam was still. 

He found himself frozen suddenly, motionless.  In this moment, the moment of the sound of his own abandoned voice.  He felt Dean’s cock, pulsing inside him, the rush of warm fluids, Dean’s hard body, so close, Dean’s breath, ragged on Sam’s skin.  And the aftershocks of pleasure, ricocheting through his body.  He observed all this, as if from a distance.  

Sam, lost to himself.

Sam, seeing this.

Seeing Dean do this to him, every time.   

And Sam letting it happen.  Seeking it. 

_(Asking for it)_

No.  That wasn’t quite it.

Sam was silent.  He felt a great silence, rising within him, where the pleasure had been.

He lowered himself carefully onto the bed, lying down on his stomach.  Dean followed him, still joined to him.  They lay there together on the bed, silent, exhausted.

Minutes passing.

Dean was not a light person to have lying on top of you.

Sam moved experimentally under his brother’s weight.  Felt Dean shift, adjust himself.  He pulled his softened cock out of Sam.  But then settled back down on Sam again.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Sam waited.  Then eventually jabbed back an elbow, hitting some sort of bone.  Dean grunted.  He moved himself around again, putting his face into Sam’s neck.  Settled back down.

Minutes, passing.

“…Dean.”

“Mm.”

“I’m suffocatin.”

Dean, murmuring.  “You’re okay.”

“No I’m not.  Lemme up.”  Sam jabbed his elbow back again.

Dean finally rolled off him, Sam breathing deep with relief.  Then Dean reached out and grasped the covers.  Lay back down and curled himself around Sam on the bed, arranging the covers over them both.  Pulled Sam into his arms, tucking Sam’s head under his chin.  Draped an arm heavily over Sam’s body.  “You cold baby?” he murmured.  “You want me to put more wood on?”

Sam felt himself contained within the warm curve of Dean, his butt nestled snugly against Dean’s crotch.  “No, I’m okay,” he said.

“Okay,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna have a sleep now, Sammy, still tired, okay?  Runnin around this mornin, choppin all that wood.  Wore me out again, after that drivin, last night.”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “I’ll just lie here, keep you company.”

Dean’s lips, in his hair.  “That’s my baby,” he whispered.  Sam felt his breaths slowing.

“After all…it’s not like I’m _goin_ anywhere,” Sam said.

He felt Dean wake up.  “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked in a different voice.

“What do _you_ think?” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “Give it a rest why don’t you,” he said.  “Jesus.”

“Why should I?” Sam asked him.

Dean sighed again.  “Look,” he said.  “I know you got things to say but I don’t want to hear ‘em.  So you might as well not say ‘em.  Bitchin at me is not gonna get you anywhere.  Not this time.”  Then he stroked his hand down along Sam's body.  Patted his butt.  Said, in a milder tone, “You settle down now, okay Sammy?  Lemme have a nap.”

Sam thought about this.  At Dean’s request for him to shut up (and when was _that_ anything new?)  He considered ignoring it _(I mean, really Dean?  I just fucked you blind and you say that to me you prime asshole)_ and say what he had to say (and Dean would damn well listen).

But then he decided not to.   

He thought about Dean coming into the room, staring at Sam as he lay waiting on the bed.  Dean’s eyes, darkening on Sam’s body the way Sam knew they would.

_(My hot little bitch)_

And he thought about Dean’s eyes on him earlier that morning, during Sam's bath, during what they’d said.  Dean’s concerned, tender eyes on him, Dean stroking his cheek.

And Sam, looking back at him, through tears.  Big brother.

_(You take care of me)_

Sam looking at Dean, who'd brought him to this place.

Dean wanted to keep Sam cuffed like this?  Didn’t want to hear anything more about it? 

Fine.  He’d see how well that played out for him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said submissively.

Dean patted him again.  “Thanks baby.”  He put his nose into Sam’s hair.  Soon he was sleeping.

Sam lay there, nestled into Dean’s body.  Closed his eyes.  Waited. 

Eventually he fell asleep too.

 


	35. Chapter 35

Sam and Dean were sitting at the table.  The wood stove was roaring, the room warm.  Dean was dressed in jeans and a tshirt and a pair of thick woolly winter socks he’d picked up the last time they’d shopped at Walmart.  Sam was wearing the pink panties, the handcuffs and another pair of woolly socks Dean had tossed over to him.  They were playing cards, a pile of plastic poker chips on the table between them.

“Your hand,” Dean said.

Sam looked at his cards.  He made a face then laid them face up on the table.   “Fold,” he said.  He was frowning.

Dean smiled (Sammy, always hating to lose at cards, frowning like a little kid, so cute…and in those little panties, adorable).  He reached out and scooped up the pile of chips from the centre of the table.  “What am I goin to collect for all of _these?”_ he said luxuriously.

“Whatever you want,” Sam answered.  He met Dean’s eyes.  “You just say when.”

Dean looked at him.  _That_ sounded awfully accommodating.  “After dinner,” he said.  “We’ll eat first.  Then I’m gonna fuck you again.”

Sam lowered his eyes.  “Yes Dean,” he said sweetly.  Dean glanced at him again, suspiciously now.  Sam was gazing down at his cuffed hands, folded in his lap. 

“I’m cookin spaghetti,” Dean said eventually.  “Fry up some ground beef, put on a sauce.  Sound good?”

“Sure,” Sam said.

“You want anythin else?” Dean asked him.

“You buy anythin for a salad?” Sam said.

Dean blinked.  “Salad?” he asked after a moment.  “Since when you been eatin _salad?”_

“I’ve been eating it at lunch,” Sam said.  “Celery, carrots, that kind of thing.  Our school had this like, lunch program where you learn how to cook healthy and the grade tens could sign up as a special assignment, as part of health sciences class.  So I signed up.”

Dean stared at him.  “You sign up for that with anyone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

Sam shrugged.  “Everyone pretty much.  You’d go the cafeteria instead of class twice a week and help make a healthy lunch for the whole school.  Chop up vegetables and stuff.  It was either that or have a study period in the library.  It was fun.”

“Sounds lame.”

“It wasn’t,” Sam said.  “Learnin how to eat healthy is important.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  He smiled at Sam, amused.  But then something occurred to him.  “Those… _friends_ of yours all sign up?” he asked.  Winced, hearing the edge in his own voice.  I mean, seriously, him so jealous over a bunch of idiot fifteen year olds.  Pathetic right?  But still.

“…Yeah,” Sam replied cautiously.

Dean frowned. 

“Except Aaron,” Sam added quickly.  He glanced at Dean then looked away.  “He went to the library instead.  He thought it was lame, like you.”

Somehow Dean didn’t feel happier, hearing this.  “You’ve been doin a lot of things on that lunch break of yours that I don’t know about,” he said.

Sam stared down at his lap.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  “I would’ve told you if I’d thought you’d cared.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean replied tightly.  “You _know_ I care about everythin you do.  Don’t I ask you every day what you’ve been doin with yourself?”

Sam, looking down.  “Yes Dean.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  He felt angry all over again.  “And what you been _tellin me?”_

“…`Nothin much,’” Sam said.

“That’s right,” Dean said.  “I ask you what you’ve been you’re doin, and you say…`nothin much,’ in that sweet little voice of yours.  Meantime, there’s a _lot_ goin on, apparently, that I’d be interested to know about.”

“I’m real sorry Dean,” Sam said again.  

“Right.”  Dean stood up.  Looked down at his brother’s bent head.  To his credit, Sam _did_ look really sorry.  Dean took a breath.  “Well…I c’n pick up some salad stuff tomorrow I guess.  Make another run.  You’ll have to deal with it though.  Cut it up or whatever.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He glanced up at Dean through his floppy bangs.  Blinked at him.  “And c’n you get some other vegetables to cook while you’re at it?” he asked.  “Like spinach maybe?  Or brussels sprouts?”

Those eyes.  Dean felt a tightness across his chest, like a tight band.  Sammy. 

“Brussels sprouts,” he repeated.  Looked at Sam, blinking up at him hopefully.  Dean felt his own expression soften at this.  Little brother. _Baby._    He smiled.  “I’ll get you all the green stuff your little heart desires Sammy.”  He walked over to where Sam sat and kissed him on his head.  “Little rabbit,” he murmured.

Sam had leaned into the kiss.  “Thanks Dean,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Dean stayed there a moment longer, his nose buried against Sam’s silky hair, breathing him in _._ He felt himself getting hard.  Sam’s warm, silky head, under his lips, so familiar.  SammySam, SamSam, Sammy, all his.  Dean’s own warm, silky little person.  Sam. 

“You my baby, Sammy?” Dean asked him tenderly.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  He was looking down at his hands in his lap, again. 

Dean gazed at him.  Sam was the picture of submission, shoulders slumped, eyes lowered, his hands clasped in his lap like a good little girl.  Sitting there like that, naked except for those pink girl panties, his silky shaven legs gleaming.  Chained to the bed.

Dean was rock hard, suddenly.  He wanted to fuck Sam again, now.

“Get over on the bed,” he said.

Sam looked up at him.  “What?”

“You heard me,” Dean said to him.  Sam blinked up at him, wordless.  Dean pointed to the bed.  Waited, to see what Sam would do.

Sam stood up and walked over to the bed.  He climbed onto it, arranging the chain so it wasn’t in the way.  “How do you want me?” he asked.

“On your back,” Dean said.  “I want to see your face, while I fuck you.”

Sam lay down on his back obediently. 

“Put your arms above your head,” Dean said.  Sam raised his arms, stretching his body out.

“Lift your butt,” Dean said.

Sam lifted his butt off the bed.  Dean peeled the panties off him carefully, set them aside.  Observed Sam’s hard cock. 

“You _like_ bein told what to do, don’t you Sammy?” he said.  “Turns you on.”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said. 

“Obeyin me…” Dean continued.  He was smiling.  “Doin _exactly_ what I say…you like it Sammy, just as much as I do.  Don’t you?”

“…Yes Dean,” Sam said.  Dean heard something in his tone.  Sarcasm?  He looked at Sam, raising his eyebrows.  “Say that again?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam repeated, his voice smoothing out.

Dean nodded.  “You should remember that,” he said.  “Remember that about yourself Sammy.  The next time you’re bein a bitch.”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said softly.  He gazed at Dean.

Dean looked back at him.  It felt like Sam was saying something else.  But Dean didn’t know what.  And anyway, they could sort that out later.  They had things to do.  “Raise your legs,” Dean said to him.  He was unbuckling his belt.  Sam raised his legs, turning his butt up under Dean’s gaze.

Dean had shucked off his jeans and shorts.  He pulled his tshirt off over his head.  Saw Sam’s eyes on him, on his body, his cock.  Taking the sight of Dean in, Sam’s eyes going soft and hazy with that look he’d get sometimes, when he looked at Dean, that look that Dean would die for, kill for, although he never mentioned that to Sam.

“Like what you see Sammy?” Dean asked him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam answered, his voice low.

Dean retrieved the lube from where it was tossed on the bed.  “I’m gonna fuck you raw,” he said to Sam.

Sam’s mouth opened.  He didn’t say anything.

Dean grinned at him.  “Tongue tied Sammy?” he asked.

Sam swallowed.  “No Dean.”

“Then what do you say?” Dean asked him.  “When I tell you you’re gonna be fucked?”  He was smiling.

Sam looked at him, wordless.  Dean waited, his smile fading.  He’d been enjoying himself.  Was Sam going to say something (bitchy) and spoil things? 

Sam swallowed again.  Then said.  “Yes Dean.  Thank you.”

Dean smiled again.  “Don’t thank me yet.”  He patted Sam on the ass, then ran a hand along one silky leg.   Pulled off Sam’s socks and grabbed his feet.  Ran his thumbs over Sam’s insteps, enjoying Sam’s surprised hum of pleasure.  Then he pushed Sam’s feet up until they were beside his ears, Sam’s butt pushed high in the air, the cheeks split wide.  Dean patted him again.  “You keep it like this until I say,” he said.  He was squeezing the lube over his hands now, over his cock.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  His muscles were straining and Dean could see the effort on his face.  “Good boy,” Dean said to him.  He patted Sam again.

Then reached out and placed a slicked up thumb on Sam’s asshole.  Rubbed his thumb around in a gentle circle, massaging the soft crinkled skin.  Sam’s mouth opened, helplessly.

“Like that?” Dean whispered.

“…Yeah.”

“Try that again,” Dean murmured to him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered.

Dean sat down on the bed beside him.  Then leaned forward and kissed Sam on the mouth, slipping his tongue between Sam’s lips.  Heard Sam’s low moan, under his mouth.  Kept his thumb on Sam’s asshole, rubbing.  Then massaged the warm soft flesh just under Sam’s balls, his thumb and fingers digging in.

Sam was writhing gently on the bed.  Dean worked him for awhile, touching Sam between the legs, kissing him.  Then he sat back.

Sam was gazing up at him, mouth open, eyes half focused.  His lips were red now and wet.  His cock was rock hard, straining.

Dean placed one finger very gently on the satiny tip of Sam’s cock, feeling the wet slit there.  Rubbed his finger around, keeping his touch light.

 _“Oh-“_   Sam’s big eyes on him, blinking up.  Sam raised his mouth.

Dean bent forward and kissed him.  “Like that, huh?” Dean murmured against Sam’s mouth.

“Yes Dean,” Sam breathed.  His voice like silk, sliding over Dean’s skin.

“You ready to be fucked now?”  Dean’s own voice was thick.

“Yes Dean.”

Dean knelt up between Sam’s legs, positioning himself.  Met Sam’s eyes again.  Hesitated.

Sam was gazing up at him expectantly, smiling slightly now.  He wanted this, Dean saw, he was waiting for it.  But calmly, with a calm, pleasurable anticipation.  Like Dean was about to serve him a meal.

Sam, waiting calmly, for his fucking.

Dean entered him, a little more roughly and quickly than he had intended to. 

“Oh!” Sam gasped.  He’d thrown his head back, his eyebrows twitching together.  He closed his eyes.

Dean thrust again, going deep, his arms braced on either side of Sam’s body.  He felt Sam wince.  “Like _that?”_ he asked.

 _“…Yes_ Dean,” Sam breathed.  His lips were parted, Dean could see his wet, pink tongue.  Dean leaned forward, sucked that pink tongue into his own mouth.  Sam moaned.  Then he curled his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

Dean thrust into him again.  And again.  He was fucking into Sam hard now, the pleasure building fast.  Sammy, so tight and hot, Jesus.  “Such a hot little bitch,” he whispered against Sam’s mouth.  “Who’s my little bitch, Sammy?”

“I am,” Sam whispered back.

“Gettin fucked…whenever I say…” Dean whispered.  He was thrusting into Sam roughly, somewhat sloppily.  He’d planned for a slow, controlled build, a slow, smooth, rocking fuck into Sam, until Sam was writhing and moaning under him, wriggling helplessly.  He loved being able to do that, to see Sam’s body flush red, to watch his mouth, helplessly whimpering.  But it wasn’t working out that way.  Somehow, Sam had gotten to him.

“Whenever you say,” Sam murmured back to him.  “Fuck me hard, big brother.” 

Dean’s breath caught.  That smooth voice, like whiskey.  He paused for a moment, distracted.  Felt Sam shift restlessly under him.  “Go on,” he whispered to Dean.  “Make me feel it.  That’s what you _wanted,_ wasn’t it?”

Dean, listening to this, this smooth, low voice from his brother.  Sam sounded different somehow.  A lot older.

“Go on,” Sam whispered to him.  “Not _scared to_ , are you?”

 _“Bitch,”_ Dean replied.  And thrust into Sam _hard,_ fuck yeah.  Watched Sam gasp, bite his lip.  _“You’re_ the one who likes it rough.”  Dean said.  He was speaking through his teeth.  Felt his own breath, coming fast.  “Aren’t you?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered.  He was trembling, skewered deep now on Dean’s cock.  Dean felt that deep internal shuddering, Sam’s hot, shuddering body, surrounding him, gripping his cock.

“Yeah,” Dean said hoarsely, barely able to speak.  “You _like_ bein reminded who’s boss.”  He slapped Sam’s ass sharply.  Sam moaned, that dark voice, the sound of it, intoxicating, the best drink in the world.  Then Sam lifted his mouth pleadingly and Dean was kissing him again, tasting Sam, feeding on him, kissing him over and over, and fucking him, kissing him, unable to stop. 

Then he heard Sam hum, deep in his throat, _purring_ almost, like a cat.  Dean raised his head, looked down at him.  He observed Sam’s face, his brother’s eyes still sweetly closed, his mouth curved into a sweet little smile.  A _waiting_ smile.

Sammy, his baby.  Waiting for Dean to _(pleasure him)_ take care of him, like always.  Like he was used to.

_(You’re my big brother)_

Dean thrust into him hard again.  Sam gasped.  But then he arched himself up against Dean’s body.  Clasped his shaven legs around Dean, that silky girl’s skin against Dean’s own skin.  “Fuck me raw, Dean,” Sam whispered.  “Like you said.”  Raised his mouth and Dean was kissing him again, helplessly.  And now thrusting, pounding into him, Sam’s hot little asshole gripping his cock so tight, like a hot little hand.

“Fuck your little bitch,” Sam whispered, and Dean shuddering at this, and fucking him, harder and harder, shuddering, his arms shaking, a dark haze of pleasure taking him over, and then releasing, spilling into Sam’s hot, tight, beautiful ass while he kissed him, kissed his brother’s soft smooth mouth, Sam still whispering between kisses, “Fuck me, fuck me Dean,” and Dean dying, dying for this moment, this moment of raw, exquisite, agonizing pleasure.  From Sam, that only Sam could give him.

He’d collapsed, panting, between Sam’s legs, his head resting on Sam’s silky, leanly muscled stomach.  Lay there, his breath slowing gradually.  Then he sat up.  Stared at Sam, still stretched out, his arms raised over his head.

“Did you come?” Dean asked him.

Sam shook his head.  He was still smiling.

Dean frowned.  “Why not?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me to,” Sam answered calmly.   Shrugged. 

Dean stared.  Sam blinked at him.  “I’m was _bein_ _obedient,”_ he said.  “Doin _exactly_ what you said.  Like you wanted, right?”

Dean stared at him.  Sam gazed back, wide eyed.  Dean’s own eyes narrowed.  Then he buried his head between Sam’s legs, taking Sam’s cock into his mouth.  Sam gasped.  Dean sucked on him, hard and fast, until Sam was mewling, his hips rising off the bed.  He came, spilling into Dean’s mouth, Dean swallowing his come, lapping at him, jabbing his tongue into the little slit at the tip of Sam’s cock.

Dean sat up.  “There you go, you little brat.”

Sam, smiling.  “Thanks Dean.”

Dean looked at him.  “So you were holdin back.”

Sam blinked.  “What do you mean?”

“When I was fuckin you,” Dean said.  He was watching Sam closely.  “You were holdin back.”

“No Dean,” Sam said.  “I would never do that.”

“Uh huh.  So what was all _that_ about then?”

“I was concentratin on _you,_ that’s all,” Sam said.  “I kinda forgot about me.”

Dean considered this.  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

Sam looked hurt.  “No it isn’t,” he said.

“Right,” Dean said.  He looked at Sam again.  Took a breath.  He wasn’t going to lose his cool about this.  Yet. 

“Don’t you _ever_ hold yourself back from me, Sammy,” he said.  _“Ever._   Got that?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  He’d lowered his eyes.  But then he glanced up at Dean, briefly.  “Whatever you say.”

Dean looked at him.  Sam’s eyes were lowered again, a meek expression on his face.  “You’ll come for me like a good little bitch,” Dean said, watching him.  _“Whenever_ I fuck you.”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said meekly.

“It’s only if _I_ tell you that you can’t come…that you won’t,” Dean continued.  “ _That’s_ the way we’re doin things.  Got it?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  Kept his eyes turned down.

Dean smiled, suddenly.  Well.  Guess they’d cleared _that_ up.  And Sam, being so good.  Obedient, like he’d said.  It _felt_ pretty damn good, Dean had to admit.  Sam being obedient _always_ sent him over the moon (and Sam knew this too). 

Dean considered this, his smile fading.  Sam knew him, alright. 

“Let’s clean you up,” he said after a moment.  He got up off the bed, found a clean dishrag, wet it under the kitchen tap.  Went back to Sam.  “Lift up.”

Sam lifted his butt up.  Dean wiped him down with the wet cloth.  Sam hissed.  “That’s cold!”

“Sorry, princess,” Dean said.  He finished wiping Sam down, quickly but thoroughly, and then took care of himself.  Pulled on his clothes.  Looked back at Sam.  “You c’n sit up.”  Sam sat up on the bed, folding his cuffed hands in his lap.  He lowered his eyes again.

Dean observed this thoughtfully.  “You’re bein real good,” he said. 

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  He didn’t look up.

“Tryin to make it up to me for last night, are you?” Dean asked him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.

“You gonna be good from now on?” Dean asked him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.

“No more doin things ‘last minute’ behind my back,” Dean elaborated.  “No more makin me crazy cause I can’t reach you on your phone.  And no more mouthin off.”

“No Dean,” Sam said.  He kept his eyes lowered.  “I’m real sorry I did all that.”

Dean considered him.  “That’s quite a change,” he said.  “From the shit you were sayin to me earlier today.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.  “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“No,” Dean said.  “You shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry Dean,” Sam said again.

Dean nodded.  “Don’t think that just because _now_ you’re bein good means I’m lettin you off the hook,” he said.  “You’re grounded Sammy.  No goin _anywhere_ without my permission and you’re not gettin _that_ so fast again either.  And from now on _everythin_ you do, you’re tellin me first.  And if I don’t like it…you’re not doin it.”

Sam looked up, stared at him.  “How long am I grounded for?” he asked.  He was twisting his wrists in the handcuffs again, but thoughtlessly, like he didn’t realize what he was doing.  Dean watched this.

“That’s not a question you ask,” he replied harshly.  “You’re grounded until further notice.  Understand?” 

Sam looked down at his hands.  “Yes Dean,” he said quietly.  “I understand.”

Dean looked at this, Sam’s bent head, his lowered eyes.  “You plannin to be good now?” Dean asked him, more mildly. 

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.

Dean nodded again.  “I’ll get dinner started,” he said.  “You clear that up then go bend yourself over it.”  He gestured to the table, still covered with the playing cards and poker chips.  He grinned.  “Nice view for me, while I’m cookin.”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment.  He didn’t look happy.  Dean waited.  Sure, Sam was _trying_ to be good.  But that didn’t mean Dean had to make it easy for him.  Sam still had a long way to go before he was back in Dean’s good books.

Sam got up off the bed.  Stood there silently in front of Dean, his finely muscled, naked self.  Dean looked at him, feeling that tight band across his chest again. 

Sam, so beautiful.  And all Dean’s. 

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.

“Go on then,” Dean said, his voice softer now.

Sam nodded.  But then as Dean watched him, he picked up the pink panties and put them on again, smoothing them over his hips.  Adjusted himself, carefully.

Dean’s breath was caught in his throat.  “…What’re you doin?” he asked.

Sam glanced up at him innocently.  “Gettin dressed,” he said.  “My butt’s cold.  These panties are better than nothin.”

“You tease me with them again your butt’s gonna be _real_ warm,” Dean said to him shortly.

“I wasn’t teasin,” Sam said.  Blinked.

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  “Get yourself over that table, _now.”_

Sam was gathering up the cards and chips.  “Yes Dean,” he said. 

Dean glanced over at Sam periodically as he prepared their meal.  Sam had bent himself over the table, his bound arms stretched out in front of him, his round butt a neat pink bubble in the silky panties.  Dean smiled at the sight.  “Turn your butt up more,” he instructed.  Sam tilted his butt up obediently.

The food was done.  Dean ladled the spaghetti onto two chipped china plates.  Brought them over to the table, then went back for knives and forks.  Sam stayed bent over the table, his head down, motionless.

“You c’n sit now,” Dean said to him.  He patted Sam lightly on the ass.  Then turned away, got a beer out of the fridge for himself and poured a glass of milk for Sam.  Brought the drinks over to the table.

Sam had sat himself back down, his hands folded in his lap.  Dean sat down too.  “You c’n eat,” he said.

Sam started to eat, struggling with the slippery spaghetti with his cuffed hands.  He didn’t say anything, but Dean could see him getting frustrated, a familiar, bitchy expression descending over his face.  He opened his mouth.

“ –If your knife ‘n’ fork are givin you trouble I c’n always put a plate down on the floor,” Dean said conversationally.  “You c’n lap it up like a dog.  I don’t mind.”

Sam’s expression smoothed out.  “No I’m fine,” he said.  Kept eating, doing his best to be neat.  “It’s good,” he added.  “Thank you for makin it.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean said.  “You wash up when we’re done, okay?  I think you c’n manage that.”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  He continued to eat carefully, his eyes lowered.

Sam had finished washing up, the dishes dried and neatly put away.  Dean was sprawled on the bed, watching the TV unenthusiastically.  A second beer was in his hand.  “Reception seriously sucks,” he said.  “I’m gonna see if I c’n pick us up a VCR tomorrow, saw a pawn shop while I was in town.  Get us some videos.”  He glanced at Sam, standing watching him, a dishrag still in his hands.  “C’mere,” Dean said.  Sam put the rag down and walked over to stand beside the bed.  He looked down at Dean questioningly.

“You just stand there for a bit,” Dean said to him.  “Lemme look at you.”  He smiled up at his brother.  Sam, being obedient.  Dean loved it, no doubt.

“You look real cute in those panties Sammy,” he said.  “I like them a lot.  I’m gonna get you some more.”

Sam glanced at Dean then quickly looked away.  “Put ‘em on me then spank me for it,” he replied, referring to their earlier conversation.  He was pouting now, looking put upon.

“Nah,” Dean said.  “You only get a spankin if _you_ put ‘em on.  Cause you want your little butt warmed up for you.”  He paused, watching Sam.  Sam was quiet.  He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“You might say different Sammy but I _know_ you like a spankin, every once in awhile,” Dean continued eventually.  “I remember that about you real well.”  Looked at his brother, standing there in those pink panties (and shit, they got Dean _going,_ just looking at them). 

“You’d rile me up on purpose for that,” Dean said, more slowly now.  “When we were just startin this whole thing.  Wouldn’t you?”

Sam was quiet.

Dean waited.  He wanted Sam to look up, suddenly.  To look at him, to acknowledge what Dean had just said. 

He waited.  Watched Sam, standing there obediently because Dean told him to, sure (but in those panties, and that had been _all_ Sam). 

Sam, standing there, obedient.

_(Your little bitch)_

Not that simple, though. 

Sam wasn’t standing there just for Dean.  Even if that’s what he’d say.

_(I kinda forgot about me)_

Not that simple.

This thing of theirs _(and it was killing them, Dean could see that now, killing them both, this lonely, mesmerizing thing that they were caught in, like a trap)…_but Sam had wanted it too.

Had wanted _him._

Dean remembered that.  Sam, wanting.  And Dean wanted, wanted, _wanted_ , suddenly, to hear that from him.

He waited.

Sam stared at the floor.  He turned his wrists slightly in the handcuffs, like he was _feeling_ the cuffs, reminding himself they were there.  Dean watched this, waiting.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said quietly.  He didn’t look up.

_Yes Dean._

Well, okay.  Dean could accept that as an answer, he guessed.  For now.

But.

( _Yes Dean)_  

Sam saying that to him, in that subdued, little boy voice.

Dean thought about this.  He _loved_ Sam saying that.  And Sam knew that.  And he’d been saying it a lot today. 

Dean looked at him.

Okay, so Sam was being good.  Sweetness and light, all afternoon.  Agreeable.  Obedient.  Respectful.  Doing everything Dean said, even if Dean _was_ being sort of an asshole (I mean, Dean was still pissed at his brother for that stunt he’d pulled last night and he wasn’t quite ready to forgive him yet, so if he gave Sam a hard time…so _what,_ okay?). 

But Sam was taking it.  No mouthing off.  No arguing.  No… _opinions._   And he hadn’t mentioned the handcuffs once.

Sweetness and light. 

It didn’t sit well, somehow.  Something was off.

Dean thought about this.  Then suddenly, he got it.

Sammy, the obedient, handcuffed little boy.  Waiting too.  Waiting for something from Dean.

But not for Dean to _forgive_ him.  No.  Sam wasn’t too concerned about _that_ (except maybe strategically).

Because he was waiting for something else.  Waiting for Dean’s guard to come down.

Uh huh.

Sam, waiting for his moment.  For Dean to relax, get soft and give Sam the opportunity to escape.  Or maybe for Dean to just cave.  Just give in and take the handcuffs off because he was tired of the whole thing (and Sam _was_ being good, after all).  Not giving Dean any more ammunition.

Sam, watching and waiting.  And in the meantime, holding himself back.  Only showing Dean what he wanted to show (strategically).  Showing Dean what he figured Dean _wanted_ to see, from him. 

 _That’s_ what he was doing.

_(I would never do that)_

But he was though.  Even obedient, Sam was _still_ being a bitch.  And thinking he could get away with it.

Dean could feel it.  Sam was fucking with him.

“What’re you doin?” he asked his brother sharply.

Sam looked up.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Nothin,” he said.  “What do you mean?”

Dean looked at him.  Sam gazed back, blinking innocently. 

Right.

“You tryin to get something out of me?” Dean asked him.

“No Dean.”

“You think sweet talkin me will get you out of those cuffs?” Dean asked.

Sam, blinking at him.  The eyes.  “No Dean,” he said sweetly.

Dean looked at him.  Sam gazed back, his eyes melting.

Dean felt himself soften, in spite of everything.  Those big eyes, Jesus.  I mean, he _could_ take off the handcuffs.  Even with Sam still thinking he could be a bitch.  So what?  Dean could handle him _(but what if Sam ran off?)_  

But he wanted Sam’s arms around him suddenly, wanted that more than anything, he was thirsty for Sam’s arms around him, like water on a hot day.  Maybe Sam was being sincere after all.  Genuinely sorry.  Genuinely wanting to make up.  He wouldn’t try to run.  Dean could relax.

But.

Sam’s eyes, on him. 

“Those cuffs are stayin on,” Dean said to him.  “The puppy eyes aren’t workin.”

Sam blinked.  His expression stayed sweet, but Dean saw something flash, deep down, just for a second.  A cold black flash, chilling as night.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said. 

Dean looked at him.

_(Yes Dean)_

Dean felt an ache, rising in his chest.  Sam, fucking with him.  Still.  Thinking he could still do that. 

Dean was tired suddenly.  Exhausted.  He didn’t want to do this anymore.  No more games.

“You love me, Sam?” Dean asked him quietly.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said, without hesitation.  He gazed at Dean, eyes wide. 

Dean looked back.   Sam’s expression, so sincere.  But then his easy answer to a question that flayed Dean raw, just asking it.  That he was almost unable to ask.

And Sam answering it like it was nothing.  Dean felt cold.  He tried again.  “You’re _with_ me, Sammy,” he said.  “You’re everythin to me.  And you know I’ll always look out for you.  Like I always have.”  Dean felt tears, suddenly, just behind his eyes.  He meant that, every word. 

 _Sammy._ He’d give his life for him.

“My baby brother,” Dean whispered.

“Yes Dean,” Sam answered sweetly.

And Dean heard it now.  That tone in Sam’s voice, sweet but in a…detached way.  Sweet, but cool at the same time, impersonal.  _Professional._   Sam could have been talking to anyone.  And Dean heard that, loud and clear.  Because Sam wasn’t hiding it from him anymore, what he was doing.  It was all there, in the tone of his voice. 

Sam, watching Dean quietly. 

Waiting.  And letting Dean see this.

Sam had stopped playing games too.  But not in the way Dean wanted. 

Dean felt the coldness deepening, seeping into his core.  He tried again.

“You love me Sammy,” Dean repeated, with difficulty this time.  “And you’re _with_ me.  You ‘n’ me.  Forever.” 

He closed his eyes.  He wanted that.  So bad, he wanted that.  And Sam knew it.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said politely.

Dean opened his eyes, looked at him.  Sam, speaking to him like that in that light, sweet, cool voice, like sugared ice water.  Chilling Dean to the bone.

No.  Sam wouldn’t do that to him.  He might be mad at Dean sure, but he wouldn’t do that, hold himself back like that, like he knew Dean couldn’t stand.  Not right now.  Not when Dean was talking to him about the really important stuff.

Sam _wanted_ things to be right between them, didn’t he?

“You’re wearin my ring,” Dean said, painfully.  “Sam.”  He heard his own voice, shaking.

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  He gazed down at Dean, his eyes blank as a doll’s. 

“I love you,” Dean whispered.  And he heard those words again, that painful whisper, in his own mind.

_(I love you)_

_(Sammy)_

“You know that, right?” Dean asked his brother.

“Yes Dean,” Sam answered.  His tone hadn’t changed.  He could have been discussing the weather.

Dean suddenly found he couldn’t look at Sam anymore.  He turned his eyes away, his whole skin numb.

He understood now.  Completely.

Sam would say what Dean wanted.  Do what Dean wanted.  _Be_ whatever Dean wanted, his own obedient, blank eyed little doll.  But with the most important part of him absent.

Lost.

_(I kinda forgot about me)_

And Dean would get colder and colder.

And Sam would watch this, with his melting, puppy dog eyes.  Never saying a word about it.

Watching Dean _die,_ right in front of him.

Dean closed his eyes. 

Okay.  So he’d heard it, finally.  Heard what Sam was _really_ saying.

And he couldn’t do this anymore.

So…okay. 

So Sam had won.  Dean would cave.  Give in.  Take the cuffs off, let Sam do what he wanted.  Let him grow up, go his own way, do his own thing, whatever that was, like he so obviously wanted.

To _leave_ Dean, if he really wanted to.  To go back to his little tribe (who’d adopted him, apparently, right under Dean’s nose), to try out being a regular, teenage boy for once, just one of the herd.  Dean figured Sam could do it (I mean, we’re talking _Sammy_ here, genius nerdboy who found a book for everything).  And Dean would help him.  Give him money, even drive him to the bus station. 

He’d give Sam what he wanted, whatever that was.

Even if it meant…Sam leaving him. 

Because Dean loved him.

Dean opened his eyes.  Stared at Sam, watching, waiting.  Dean’s hand went to the pocket of his jeans, to pull out the handcuff key, to get the ball rolling, get this over with.  Saw Sam’s eyes on him, watchful.

Dean hesitated.

No.

He clenched his teeth, agonized.

He couldn’t do this _,_ either.

If he took off those cuffs…and watched Sam walk away…could he live with _that,_ either? 

Dean couldn’t see beyond it, that moment, the final moment of Sam’s back, turned finally away from him. 

Just darkness, after.

Was there anything left for him, after that moment?

He really didn’t know. 

And would Sam…would Sam _really_ walk out, knowing just how much _pain_ for Dean _(mortal/the end of everything)_ that really meant?

Sam’s calm, cool voice, what he’d said earlier.

_(Maybe.  Maybe not.  I’d have to think about it.)_

_Would_ he?  And if so, when? 

Now?  Tomorrow?  Next week?  And with Dean always on just this side of agony, waiting.

But maybe never. 

Maybe Sam would stay, after all.  _Be_ with Dean, for real, his baby brother-wife, like Dean wanted above everything.

Like Sam knew he wanted.

But Dean just didn’t know.

Jesus fuck.  Christ.  God.

Sammy, fucking with him.

He was so fucking _good_ at it.

Dean was furious, suddenly.

Sam, thinking he could just… _do_ that.  Torture Dean, like he was so good at. 

 _Sam,_ with that life/death hold over him.  And throwing it in Dean’s face, so casually.

_(I’d have to think about it)._

Well…okay.  Fine.

That wasn’t going to happen.  Not today.

Dean not dying today.

_(Because Sam loved Dean, too, he must)_

Sam was wicked smart, sure.  But Dean was no idiot, either.  And Sam forgot that, sometimes.

(Took Dean for granted, and when was _that_ anything new?)

Well…he was about to have a reminder.

And then they would see.

Before they were done here, Sam would give Dean what _he_ wanted, too.

Give Dean what he wanted, for real.

_(Or not…and Dean would die then/no)_

But okay.

Either way, for real.

No more games.

Dean reached out and ran his fingers over the warm bulge of Sam’s cock.  “You _liked_ your little spankins,” he said conversationally, as if they’d been talking about that all along.  “Once in a while.  Didn’t you?”

Sam stared at him, surprised.  “What?”

“Me spankin you,” Dean said.  He stroked Sam gently.  _“_ Before all the other stuff happened between us.  _That’s_ why you’d act like such a brat to me sometimes.  Hopin I’d spank you.  You liked it.”

Sam didn’t answer. 

Dean stared at his brother.  Sam’s eyes were on the floor again.  “You were real determined,” he said.  “Mouthin off ‘n’ pesterin me until I had no choice.  Little brat.”

“…I didn’t know what I was doin,” Sam said, after a moment. 

Dean watched him carefully.  “Sure,” he said.  “If you say so.  But you were doin it anyways Sammy.  And you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

Stroking him, gently.

Sam was quiet.  But Dean could see him reacting now, to the stroking, his expression softening.

“I’m right, aren’t I? _”_ Dean asked him.  Stroking.

Sam stood there silently.  He’d closed his eyes under the touch of Dean’s hand.  Dean continued to stroke him, back and forth, delicately.  “You’re gettin hard,” he said conversationally.  Then said, “Answer my question, Sammy.”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.  But he sounded breathless now.

“Yes Dean,” Dean repeated.  Ran his fingers along Sam’s cock.  “You’re a cold little bitch, aren’t you, Sammy?”

“What do you mean?” Sam whispered.  Dean observed his parted lips, the flash of pink tongue.

“I mean…that I _love_ you sayin that, you know that,” Dean said.  “Tellin me _yes_ like I’m your daddy.  ` _Yes Dean,’_ like you know just who you belong to.  You _know_ how much I love it.  And now you sayin it…like _that_ …on purpose just to make me crazy.  You little bitch.”

Stroking Sam’s cock, lightly, gently, touching Sam just exactly how he knew Sam loved to be touched.

Dean knew how to do that, alright.  He’d studied that particular subject very closely, he’d ace any test.

Sam was quiet.  But his cock was hard now, straining under the tight panties.  Dean ran his fingers up and down its length.  He felt Sam start to tremble.

“I could spank you now if you like,” Dean continued.  “Warm up your little bitch’s ass.”  His thumb, rubbing along the length of Sam’s cock. 

“You said you wouldn’t punish me anymore,” Sam whispered.  He was holding himself still, his eyes tightly closed.  “You promised.”

“It wouldn’t be punishment,” Dean whispered back, “and you know it.”  He trailed all four fingers over Sam’s cock.  Sam shuddered.  Dean suddenly cupped his hand over Sam’s cock, a warm, neat package under the slick fabric of the panties.  Sam whimpered.  He arched his hips forward, leaning helplessly into Dean’s hand.  Dean drew back.  He watched Sam bite his lip. 

“All those times you’d rile me up,” Dean said to him.  Started stroking Sam, again.  “Goin at me…not stoppin until you were over my knee…”  

Dean suddenly remembered how he’d felt, his anxious, impossibly aggravated fifteen year old self, tasked with the lonely responsibility of disciplining his little brother.  Keeping Sammy in line, so that their dad wouldn’t step in _(and have something terrible end up happening, something their family couldn’t come back from)._   And then Sammy, his wriggling round little butt, turned up over Dean’s knee.  Twelve year old Sammy wriggling himself against Dean’s crotch, whimpering about being spanked but pressing himself deliciously against the straining bulge of Dean’s cock at the same time.  And Dean, embarrassed as hell but going along with it, even though he knew he shouldn’t. 

Loving the feel of his little brother’s body pressed against him.  And hating himself for it.

Torture.  Months of it.

“You knew _exactly_ what you were doin,” Dean said to Sam.  “Sayin anythin different is just bullshit.” 

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean, stroking him.  He felt strange suddenly.  Undecided.  _Ambivalent_ , that was the word.  He wanted Sam turned on, sure.  Turned on, shuddering, trembling, beyond thought, his cool, bitchy little expression shattered for once and forever.  But he also wanted an answer.  A rational one.  He wanted to _understand_ his brother suddenly, he wanted to see into that mysterious, exasperating Sammy brain and understand just how it worked.

“What did you _want_ from me, Sammy?” Dean asked.  “When you were puttin me through all of that?”  He heard his own voice, the tension and sincerity in it.

Sam was quiet.

Dean stroked his brother’s cock again.  He kept his touch light, subtle, the tips of his fingers like feathers.  “Sammy?  Answer me.”

Sam, still quiet.  But he was trembling now, under Dean’s hand.

“Answer me,” Dean whispered.

Sam started to speak, hesitated.  He opened his eyes, looked down at Dean on the bed.  Dean met his eyes.  Then said,

“Your _real_ answer, Sammy.  The truth.  I deserve that.” 

Kept stroking him.

“I wanted…you…to…pay attention to me,” Sam said eventually.  He’d flushed a bright red.  “I wanted you…to be just as…turned on…as me.”

Dean considered this.  He stopped stroking Sam’s cock.  Sam moved his hips thoughtlessly, trying to rub himself against Dean’s palm.  “Stay still!” Dean said to him sharply.  Sam froze.  “You c’n move when I say,” Dean continued in a milder tone. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.  He’d closed his eyes again.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He started stroking Sam again, with feather-light fingers.  Sam was painfully hard now, his cock standing up like a spear, its swollen red tip poking out from beneath the waistband of the panties.  Dean ran his thumb over it, the swollen blunt head of Sam’s cock, feeling its satiny skin, slick with moisture.  Put his thumb in his mouth, tasting the salt.  “Turnin me on,” he said thoughtfully.  Licked his thumb.  _“That’s_ what it was all about wasn’t it?  When you were bein bad with me like that.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered. 

“Say _‘Yes Dean,’_ ” Dean said to him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered painfully.

“…Teasin me,” Dean said.  He stroked his wet thumb carefully over the tip of Sam’s cock.  Back and forth.  Pinched him, lightly.

Sam shuddered. 

“You _liked_ teasin me, didn’t you?” Dean asked him.  

“Yeah,” Sam answered. 

Dean flicked a fingernail sharply against the tip of his cock.  Sam gasped. 

“What do you say?” Dean asked him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam replied, choked.

“Rilin me up...” Dean continued.  And touched Sam again, in just the way his brother liked.

Sam didn’t reply.  He’d tilted his head back, exposing his throat.  His breath was hissing raggedly. 

“Bein a bitch to me,” Dean said to him.  “You _like_ bein a bitch, don’t you Sammy?”  Stroking him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam breathed.

Dean nodded.  “And now you…showin yourself off in girl’s panties… _knowin_ what it does to me…What do you think that is?”

Sam, silent. 

Dean touched him, a little stronger this time.  Sam shuddered.

“Sammy?”  Dean’s thumb, rubbing.  “Tell me what that is.”

“Teasin,” Sam whispered. 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.  “Teasin.”  His voice roughened.  “And don’t forget how I found _out_ about your little panties, Sammy.  You talkin me into lettin you go to that dance then dressin up like a slutty little girl.  Flirtin with some dude behind my back.  Mouthin off, sayin all those nasty things to me.  _Torturin_ me with what you said…on _purpose._   Fightin to run away.”

Stroking him, harder now, his fingers digging in.  Sam was flushed red, breathless, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. 

“Bein bad,” Dean continued.  “To _me.”_  His fingers were around Sam’s cock suddenly.  He gripped it hard, massaging it, rubbing it.  Sam gasped.  _“Dean-“_

 _“Weren’t_ you?” Dean snapped.  He palmed Sam hard through the thin material of the panties.  Sam shuddered. _“Oh-“_

Dean looked up at his brother, flushed with pleasure.  Shuddering helplessly under Dean’s touch.  Sam.  He was a beautiful sight, no doubt.  But still a bitch.

Dean palmed him, hard again.  Sam gasped.  “Sammy?” Dean said.  His hand on his brother’s cock.  He _knew_ what he was doing here _,_ just how to touch Sam, he’d learned through hours of practice and close observation, he knew _this_ part of his brother alright.  Sam moaned.  Dean could see him trying desperately not to wriggle, to hold still under Dean’s hand.  “I’m waitin for your answer,” Dean said.

“…Y-yes Dean,” Sam choked out. 

“That’s not good enough.”  Dean rubbing him again, very strong, his palm, fingers and thumb all doing their work. 

Sam writhing now, in spite of himself.  Whimpering.  “Dean, please-“

 _“Say it!”_ Dean snapped.  “Answer the question!”  And then touching Sam, expertly.

Sam shuddering.  “I was bein bad to you,” he gasped.

Dean nodded.  “Real bad,” he agreed.  “And every time I see you like this-“ he looped a finger under the elastic of the panties and snapped them against Sam’s skin, “- it’ll remind me of just how bad you were.  How bad you made me feel.”  He palmed Sam’s cock again.

Sam was trembling helplessly.  “I’m sorry,” he whimpered.  “Dean, _please, I’m gonna come- “_

“No you won’t,” Dean said to him.  “You’ll come when I say.  You’re bein _obedient,_ aren’t you?” 

Then palming him, tenderly, expertly.  Mercilessly, working Sam’s cock with fingers and thumb.

Sam’s teeth were clenched.  Dean saw him bite the inside of his cheek, hard.  Dean stroked him.

 _“Sorry_ doesn’t cut it,” he continued.  He took his hand away suddenly.  Sam gasped, shocked.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dean said.  Looked up at his brother, saw Sam blinking down at him, his body trembling on the edge of release, his eyes raw.  There were tears in Sam’s eyes, Dean noticed.

Good.

Sam was going to learn a lesson, here.  Not to use words like weapons.  Or as a wall, to shut Dean out.  Not anymore. 

Sam would give Dean what he wanted.

“What do you _mean?”_ Sam asked him.  His voice cracked as he spoke, no longer a smooth whiskey glide.  Dean smiled, hearing this.

“What do _you_ think?” he said.  He reached out, curving his hand over Sam’s balls.  Cupped them gently, feeling their soft weight nudge his palm.  Trailed his fingers delicately over them.  Sam hissed.  _“_ Dean!”  He was gritting his teeth.  “C’mon…“

“You’re a smart little bitch,” Dean said to him.  “Figure it out.”  He began rubbing Sam’s cock again, hard fingers and thumb digging in.  Then tickling soft.  Then hard again.

Sam had arched himself against Dean’s hand.  Dean watched the slender line of his body, straining.  Trembling, under an agony of pleasure.  His brother’s silky body.  Those long legs, that shaven skin, gleaming.  “Bein _such_ a bad girl,” Dean said to him.  He released Sam’s cock, ran his hand down a satiny thigh.  Sam rolled his head.  “Weren’t you?” Dean asked him.

“…Yeah…”

Dean smacked him sharply on his cock.  “What?”

 _“Yes_ Dean,” Sam whimpered.  His hips, writhing.

“’N’ what do bad girls _need?”_   Dean murmured, fingering Sam’s cock, feeling it twitch.  A crazy bolt of pleasure shot through his own body, almost paralyzing.  Sam’s cock, under his hand.  He closed his eyes briefly.

“…A spankin,” Sam whispered.

“Is that what you need?” Dean murmured.  Touched Sam again, just on the wet tip of his cock, his own fingers feather light.

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered.  He was biting his lip.

“Ask me then,” Dean whispered.  Touching Sam, that slick moisture, leaking onto his fingers.  He took the tip of Sam’s cock between fingers and thumb, applied a gentle pressure.

 _“Oh…”_   Sam’s head back, the graceful line of his throat.

“Ask me,” Dean whispered.

“Spank me,” Sam whispered back. 

Dean touched his cock, softly then hard, his fingers and thumb working.  “Oh _god-“_ Sam whispered.  Dean stopped.

Sam moaned.

“Ask me nicer,” Dean said.

Sam was trembling.  “Dean…please spank me,” he gasped.  Dean saw his eyes open, fill with tears suddenly.  Sam blinked them back.  “Please,” he whispered again.

Dean sat up.  He met Sam’s wet gaze, held it for a moment.  Then he buried his face into Sam’s crotch, nuzzling him.  Sam was immediately moaning, clutching at Dean’s hair.  He bucked his cock up hard against Dean’s mouth, seeking access.  Dean kept his mouth closed.

“Dean _please,”_ Sam moaned.  Clutching at him.  “Lemme come.  You c’n spank me after.  But lemme come.  _Please-“_

Dean sat back, moving himself away.

_“Dean!”_

“Go over to the table,” Dean said.  “I’ll spank you there.  And keep your hands away from that cock.  You need my _permission_ to come, isn’t that right?  Well you’ll have to wait for it.”

Sam stared at him.  Then said, “No…Dean…put me over your knee.  Okay?”

“And let you rub yourself on me?”  Dean shook his head.  “Uh uh.  You don’t deserve that kind of spankin.”

“But Dean-“

Dean got up.  He took Sam by the arm and steered him over to the table.  “Bad girls don’t get choices,” he said.  “They just take what’s comin to them and say ‘thank you,’ after.”

“But _Dean-“_

“Arguin already,” Dean said.  Sam was standing at one end of the small, rectangular table now, with Dean behind him.  Dean put his hand on the back of Sam’s neck and pushed him forward.  “Put your hands above your head,” he said.  “And bend over.”

Sam resisted.  “No, Dean, I didn’t want- c’mon…you’re not bein _fair_ …”

Dean abruptly lost his patience.  _Sam,_ always complaining.  Always bitching about something.

Always thinking he could be a bitch.  Even when it cut Dean to the bone.

He picked up the chain attached to Sam’s handcuffs and yanked on it, pulling Sam’s arms up and across the surface of the table and yanking him forward.  Sam’s chest slammed against the table’s surface with a thump.  “Ow!”  Sam exclaimed.  He struggled to rise.

Dean yanked on the chain again.  “Stay where you are.”

Sam, struggling.  “No!  Dean!  This wasn’t what I-“

Dean yanked on the chain hard, stretching Sam tight across the table.  “Wasn’t what you had in mind, huh?” he said.  “Little bitch.”

Sam pulled back, struggling.  “Dean!  Stop it!”

“Nope,” Dean said.  “You asked for a spankin and that’s what you’re gettin.  Now stay still.”

“I won’t!”  Sam hissed at him.  He glared up at Dean furiously.  Struggled.

Dean smiled at him.  “Stay still little bitch,” he said.  “You’re gonna _like_ this.”

“Fuck you!” Sam hissed.

Dean stopped smiling.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Fuck me two ways from Sunday.  Mind-fuckin me was the whole little plan here, wasn’t it Sammy?”

Sam didn’t answer.  Then he grabbed the chain and yanked hard on it, nearly pulling Dean off his feet.  “Whoa!” Dean said.  “Can’t be havin that.”  Keeping one hand tight on Sam’s chain, he put his other hand under the table, lifting it up by one leg.  Looped the chain around the table leg.  Sam was struggling, shrieking.  “Dean!  Fucking _stop it!_ ”  He yanked his cuffed wrists back, trying to turn the table over.  Dean quickly lifted the table’s other corner, looping the chain around the table’s opposite leg.  The chain was stretched out tight suddenly, no slack left in it, running in a taut line from the bed to the table, wrapped around the two table legs and then to Sam’s handcuffs, Sam stretched out tight now too, bent forward from the waist, his arms pulled over his head and securely fastened, his head and shoulders resting on the table’s surface, slightly lower than his hips, angling his butt up high into the air.

Sam was shrieking.

“Dean!  You’re not fuckin _doin_ this!  I mean it!”

“Sure I am,” Dean was behind him again, enjoying the sight of Sam’s wriggling butt.  He laid a hand on it, patted.  “And you’re gonna enjoy every minute of it.”

“I’m not!  Fuck you!”

“Uh huh.  You just keep on sayin that Sammy, see how well it works for you.”

Suddenly Sam kicked out behind him, nearly catching Dean in the kneecap. 

“Shit!” Dean jumped back. 

Sam was scrambling awkwardly, trying to clamber up onto the table.   Dean could see he wanted to get himself over to the table’s other side, to achieve some slack on the chain, maybe flip the table over.

Dean whipped off his belt and grabbed Sam by his right ankle. 

“Let _go!”_   Sam kicked back with his other leg, aiming for Dean’s head, Dean holding tight to his ankle, dodging this, just barely.

“Nope.”  Dean yanked Sam’s leg over to the right hand table leg and wrapped his belt around both the table leg and Sam’s calf and ankle, securing him.  He buckled the belt tightly.

 _“Dean!”_   Sam was twisting his body back and forth, thumping himself against the table trying to gain leverage, kicking back awkwardly with his free foot.

“Don’t do that Sammy, you’ll hurt yourself,” Dean said. 

“You fucking _asshole!”_ Sam shrieked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said.  He was crouched over one of his boots, unthreading the leather boot lace.  Went back to Sam and grabbed his left ankle, holding the bootlace in his teeth.  Yanked Sam’s ankle against the left hand table leg and wrapped the bootlace quickly around his ankle and calf, tying it tightly.  “There.”  Dean stood up, stepped back.

Observed Sam, still struggling, but uselessly now, his legs yanked apart and tied to the table legs, his back and arms stretched tight over the table’s surface.  His round, wriggling, panty clad butt, high in the air, the cheeks split wide.  The hard bulge between his legs.

Dean’s mouth was dry.  He stared at his brother silently.  His own cock was rigid, throbbing painfully.   He swallowed, trying to find his voice.  “Ready for that spankin now?” he asked.

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam hissed.  Wriggling.  “I _hate you.”_  

“Don’t say that,” Dean said.  “You wanted this, remember?”

“No,” Sam said.  “I _never_ wanted this.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dean said.  He was behind Sam now, his hand on Sam’s butt, rubbing it.  “I love your ass,” he said to Sam.   Rubbing it.  “Who does it belong to Sammy?”

“Fuck you!” Sam said.

Dean smiled.  “You were bein so polite to me earlier,” he said.  “What happened?”  Then rubbing him, _rubbing_ those firm, round cheeks.  Patting them.

Sam’s luscious round ass, tight as a drum.  Jesus.  Criminal, to have an ass like that.

“I’m not doin this Dean!” Sam hissed at him.

“Seems to me you don’t have a choice,” Dean said to him.  Put his hand on the bulge between Sam’s legs, cupping it gently.  Sam was still rigidly hard, throbbing.  He gasped.  “Any _which_ way,” Dean continued softly.  He trailed his fingers over Sam’s cock again, enjoying Sam’s hiss of breath.

Sam tried again.  “You _know_ I didn’t want it like-“

“-You asked me for a spankin,” Dean said.  “Begged me for it, actually.  And now that’s what you’re gettin.  And _now_ you don’t get _any_ say in how, where or how long.  That’s _my_ call.  And the more you bitch the longer it’ll last.”  He was rubbing between Sam’s legs strongly now, Sam’s cock pulsing under his fingers.  Sam moaned, wriggling involuntarily against his hand.  Dean grasped his cock through the panties, pulled on it.  Sam moaned again.  _“Oh-“_

Dean released his cock.  Sam whimpered, his hips writhing.  “Dean, please-“

“Such a hot little bitch,” Dean said.  Then said, “So you understand me Sammy?”

Touching him.  Sam whimpering.  Wriggling.

“Sammy,” Dean said.  “You understand?”

“…Understand _what?”_ Sam hissed.

Dean stroked him between the legs again, very delicately this time.  Sam moaned.  “What happens…if you ask to get spanked.  Who’s in _total_ charge, after that.” 

“Y-yes,” Sam said.  Writhing.  Dean could see his thighs trembling. 

“What was that?”  Stroking.

“Yes Dean,” Sam moaned.

“Smart little bitch,” Dean said to him, gently now.  “You always were the smart one, weren’t you?”  Stroking.

“Dean…” Sam gasped.

“Yes baby?”  Stroking him.

“Just _do_ it!” Sam gasped.  “Get on with it!  _Please…”_

Dean grasped his cock and pulled.  “That's _not_  how you talk to me.”  Pulled on Sam again, then palmed him thoroughly.  Sam mewled, pushing his cock into Dean’s hand.  Dean drew back.  Touched Sam’s cock lightly.  Sam whimpered.

“Well?” Dean asked him.  “What do you say?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said, choked.  “I’m sorry.”

“Good boy,” Dean said.  Patted him.  Then positioned himself carefully behind Sam’s upraised ass.  “You c’n count,” he said. 

He raised his hand high.  Then brought it down _hard_ on Sam’s ass, spanking him right on the plumpest part of one cheek.  Sam gasped.

Dean waited.

Sam bit his lip.  Then said, _“One…”_

Dean nodded.  He raised his hand again.

And continued to spank his brother. 

Thoroughly.

 _“…Forty-nine,”_ Sam gasped.  He was wincing, wriggling with pain.

Dean had spanked him _very_ hard, just with his hand, true, which was less painful than the hairbrush or the belt, but it had been quite a few months since that last real spanking Sam had received (that little warm up paddling he’d had earlier today didn’t count), and he wasn’t used to it anymore.

Dean had large hands and they were hard as iron.  Sam had forgotten how much they could hurt.

Dean’s spanks _hurt._ Sam found himself moaning and wriggling helplessly after each one, even though he was mad as hell.

At Dean, for tricking him into this.  Making Sam beg to be spanked and then tying him up like this.  Telling Sam he’d enjoy it.  That _wasn’t_ what Sam had had in mind.

But now…the thing was…Sam _was_ enjoying it.  And he couldn’t hide it.

Dean had made sure of that.

Dean was spanking him differently than he ever had before.   It was hard, sure, but it clearly didn’t have anything to do with punishment.

For one thing, there was the pacing.  Dean had spanked him in sets of ten (Sam knew this, because he’d counted out each one).  Dean would start each set with a medium hard spank and end it with a _really_ hard spank, his hand seeking out each and every tender spot on Sam’s ass.  By the end of the first two sets Sam had been bouncing up and down on his toes, gasping out the numbers as Dean spanked him.

But between sets Dean rubbed his butt, his hands warm and tender on Sam’s cheeks, massaging the tingling flesh.  He’d never done that before (he’d never let _Sam_ touch his own butt, for that matter, either during or immediately after a spanking) and it felt _great._   Sam found himself pressing his butt up against Dean’s hands, seeking more of that exquisite rubbing, in spite of himself. 

And _then_ …there was the _other_ rubbing.  Before spanking him again Dean would rub him between the legs, stroking and tickling him under those goddamn panties until Sam felt ready to burst, his balls drawn up so tight, his cock tingling and burning and throbbing.  Until he was moaning and bucking against Dean’s hand, begging him, wriggling his butt invitingly, trying to convince Dean to give him more, more, _more_ of whatever he was doing, and not to stop-

-and then Dean _would_ stop.  And Sam whimpering now, writhing, desperately close to coming.  And then Dean’s voice.  “Start from twenty-one, Sammy.”  And that hard hand descending again, each spank harder and more exquisitely painful than the last.

And then the massage.  And then the expert, tickling torture, between Sam’s legs. 

And then the spanking, again.

By now, Sam was dizzy with pain and pleasure.  He waited helplessly for the next spank, holding his breath.

_SMACK._

The stinging blow, striking him sharply on the softest part of his butt, right on the crease between his butt cheek and inner thigh.  Sam moaned.  That spot, already tender and throbbing, now lit on fire.  He whimpered, wriggling helplessly.

Another pause.  Dean was waiting for him.

“Fifty,” Sam gasped.  The end of the set.  He lay there, his butt burning, his cock straining, rigid, hungry for the touch of Dean’s hands. 

His cock knew what was coming.

Dean didn’t touch him. 

Sam heard him step back.  _“Dean!”_ he moaned.  “C’mon-“

“Your butt’s bright red under those panties,” Dean said.  “It’s a good look for you.  But I think you’ve had enough of a warm up.  Time for the real deal.  What do you say those panties come off?”

Sam considered this.  Dean’s hand, spanking him on his bare skin, already so tender.  Sam wasn't looking forward to that at _all_.  But on the other hand…Dean’s hand on his bare cock, slick with juice, Dean’s expert fingers on his bare, throbbing cock, finally. 

“Yes Dean,” Sam said.

“Yes what?” Dean asked him.

“Yes…take ‘em off,” Sam said.  “Please,” he added.

“Nah,” Dean said.  “That was close, but not quite on the money, Sammy.  Ask me again, _real_ nicely, or we’re leavin those panties on and going right into the next ten.”

Sam bit his lip.  He felt himself trembling, dying so bad to have Dean’s hands on him right now, touching him on his bare skin. 

“Dean…” he swallowed.  “Please take my panties off.  Please spank me with them off.  Please.”  Sam was whispering now.  He felt his cheeks, flushed hot with humiliation.  He curled his hands into fists, the tendons of his wrists pressing uncomfortably against the metal cuffs.  He squeezed his eyes closed.

Suddenly Dean’s hands were on his hips.  He peeled the panties down slowly over Sam’s sore butt and partway down his thighs.  “Whatever my little princess wants,” Dean murmured.  His mouth was on the sore bare skin of Sam’s butt, kissing Sam there, his fingers digging deliciously into the stinging flesh.  He rubbed his rough, unshaven cheek against Sam’s butt.  Sam whimpered with pleasure.

Dean’s hand was between his legs, running over the tingling, throbbing flesh of Sam’s cock.  “Omigod,” Sam whispered.  The feel of Dean’s hand on his bare cock, he’d been _waiting_ for this.  And then Dean’s lips, on the soft, exposed skin of his asshole.  “Want me to get the lube?” Dean murmured against him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam breathed.  He was trembling.  The brush of Dean’s lips on that tender skin, too much.  He felt Dean smile.  He stepped away.  But then he was back, and slick, greased up fingers were grasping Sam’s cock.  Dean’s thumb, running slickly over the tip of Sam’s cock.  His greased up palm, pressing up against Sam’s cock, applying just the right amount of pressure.  “ _Oh,”_ Sam moaned.  His whole body was writhing.  “Oh _god,_ Dean you’re killin me...”

“Don’t come,” Dean warned him.  “Or I’m leavin you strapped to the table for the rest of the night.”

Sam rolled his head back.  His balls, his cock, Jesus.  If this went on much longer there’d be permanent damage.  “I won’t,” he gasped. 

“Good boy,” Dean murmured.  “Ready for the rest of your spankin?”

“Y-yes Dean,” Sam whispered.

“You don’t have to count this time,” Dean said.  “I’ll be goin too fast.”

And then his hand descended with a loud smack on Sam’s bare, stinging ass.  The spanking continued, hard and fast, Dean sometimes cupping Sam’s bottom with a loud popping sound, sometimes striking him with a flat palm, his fingers splayed out, delivering a painful wallop. 

Sam was writhing, pulling back against the bindings on his wrists and legs, wriggling his butt, mewling, embarrassed by the sound of his own voice but unable to stop himself.  His cock was throbbing, bobbing into the air, hungry for another touch of Dean’s hands.  He felt the air on his exposed asshole, his ass split wide by his tied open legs.  And his butt, burning hot under that intense, merciless spanking, with every smack of Dean’s hand sending a bolt of sensation directly between his legs.

Sam had gotten hard before, when Dean would spank him.  Not all the time, or even _most_ of the time (most of the time, he’d been too upset, and crying).  But sometimes he had (and especially when the spankings had been the only thing bringing him onto Dean’s lap).  But he’d always been kind of embarrassed by it (he wasn’t supposed to _enjoy_ spankings, he knew…punishments weren’t supposed to be fun). 

But _this._

Dean had given him permission to enjoy this spanking (he’d insisted on it, actually).  And Sam was _dying_ here, balanced exquisitely on the edge of pain and pleasure, every burning spank reminding him of the pleasure he received from Dean’s hands.

Dean’s strong, capable hands, touching Sam wherever and whenever Dean wanted.  And Sam loving it, in spite of everything.  _Loving it,_  because Sam was _Dean’s_ and Sam’s body knew it.

God, he needed to come.

“Dean-” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.  A particularly hard spank descended on his butt.  _“Ow!“_

“What?”  Dean kept spanking him, one cheek and then the other, Sam’s butt quivering now, rising and falling helplessly with each spank.  Dean had started alternating hands, giving Sam a few strokes with his left hand and a few with his right (he could spank equally well with both).  And then… taking little breaks, rubbing Sam’s butt, tickling and massaging Sam’s cock, running his tongue along the crease of Sam’s ass while Sam writhed and moaned, Dean murmuring to him _(there’s my baby),_ his lips on Sam’s skin, his hands on Sam’s cock, hard hands then soft, working him, expertly _._

Sam, dying under this.

And then Dean spanking him again.  Sam had lost track of how many spanks they were talking about at this point, but it was well upwards of a hundred.  And Dean was thorough.  Sam’s butt was on fire all the way down to his thighs.

He couldn’t stand this any longer.

“Dean…” he gasped.

“Yeah?”  Dean spanking him steadily, with no break in the even, terrible rhythm.

“Fuck me,” Sam gasped.  “Please-“

“Spankin’s not over,” Dean said.  _(Spank, spank, spank)_

 Sam moaned.  _"Ow…_ Please Dean, I need it.”  

 _Another_ hard spank.

“OW!”

“And why should I give _that_ to you?” Dean asked him.  Spanking him.

“I need to _come,”_ Sam moaned.  “Please…”  Another spank, on a particularly tender spot.  _“Ow!”_

Suddenly Dean’s hand, on Sam’s cock.  “Oh yeah?” he said.  “Bad down there, is it?”  Stroking him, lightly.  Then hard.

Sam moaned.  He wriggled his hips, trying not to buck into Dean’s hand.  “Dean, you touch me anymore, I’m gonna come, I can’t-“ Dean stroked him with light fingers.  “Better not,” he said.  Sam gasped, then bit the inside of his cheek.  _“Dean,”_ he said.  “Please-“

And then Dean spanking him _again… hard,_ with a heavy open hand. 

“OW!  OW!  OW!  Dean, c’n you _please_ let me-“

“-Who’s ring you wearin?”  Dean asked him coldly. 

Spanking him.

“Yours,” Sam gasped.

“And _why?”_   And Dean’s hand on Sam’s cock again, tickling, rubbing.

Sam was dizzy.  His awareness had narrowed down to only this, Dean’s hands on him, spanking him, tickling him, driving him out of his mind.  “Because I’m yours,” he gasped. 

His eyes filled with tears.  He squeezed them shut, waiting silently for the next spank.

It didn’t come. 

Dean had stepped back.  Sam felt his sudden absence and craned his neck to look behind himself, panicked.  “Dean!  Don’t leave-“ and then saw his brother shucking off his jeans and shorts, kicking them out of the way.  Dean was staring at Sam, his eyes like green lasers.  He ripped his tshirt over his head and threw it down.

Sam stared back at him, his beautiful, naked brother, the most beautiful sight on earth, his dark green gaze on Sam.  He felt the hot stinging tears, rising in his eyes again.  “Dean,” he whispered.

Then Dean was behind him, his thumbs on Sam’s asshole, massaging it.  He kissed Sam’s asshole, licked it with his tongue.  Sam was mewling.  He pushed his ass up against Dean’s mouth.

“Ready to be fucked now Sammy?” Dean murmured.  Licking him, his tongue jabbing in.  Sam mewled.

“Yeah,” he gasped.  Dean drew back, spanked him sharply again.

_“Ow!”_

“What was that?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said, choked.

“`Yes Dean,’” Dean repeated.  He squeezed a cold dribble of lube onto Sam’s asshole, Sam yelping.  Then two hard fingers, plunging into him.  Immediately rubbing Sam from the inside, perfectly.

Sam was writhing, shaking.  “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  _Dean!_   _Omigod…_ ”

“Who’s my little bitch?” Dean asked him.  Rubbing him, deep, deep inside.  And then _tickling_ him, if that were possible, _right in there._  

_“OH-“_

“Sammy?”  And Dean’s fingers, pressing now so gently into Sam’s ass, lighting up him up deep from the inside, the sensation exquisite, tingling, unbearable.

“I am,” Sam gasped.  He was bucking his ass, trying to push harder against those fingers.

Dean started spanking him again.  He kept his fingers in Sam’s ass and used his _other_ hand, fucking Sam and spanking him at the same time.

Sam wriggling, mewling.  _“Omigod…DEAN…“_

Dean’s hard voice.  “You gonna fuck with me again _,_ little bitch?” 

_Spank, spank, spank._

_“No,”_ Sam moaned.  “Never.”

And Dean, still fucking him with his fingers, so perfectly, but it still not enough.  And then those hard, burning spanks on Sam’s ass, already blazing.  Sam was whimpering, writhing helplessly.

Another spank, _hard_.

_“OW!”_

“Because you know better now, right?” Dean asked him. 

_Spank, spank, spank._

“Yes Dean,” Sam moaned.  “Please…stop…”

 “I’m not done yet,” Dean said.  And then, SPANK.

 _“OW!”_ Sam was crying now.

“I have more questions for you first,” Dean said to him.  He removed his fingers from Sam’s ass, wiped them carefully on Sam’s skin.  Then started spanking him again, _very_ hard now.

“Ow, ow, _OW!”_   Sam crying, wriggling, the tears running freely down his face.

“You ready?”  Dean asked him.  Spanking him.

“Yes Dean,” Sam replied, choked.

“And I want your _real_ answer, Sammy,” Dean said.  “No more bullshit.”  Spanking him, _hard._

“Yes Dean,” Sam sobbed.

“You mine?” Dean asked him. 

_Spank, spank, spank._

Sam, sobbing.  “Yes Dean.”

“And how _long_ you gonna be mine?” Dean asked. 

_Spank, spank, spank._

“Always,” Sam gasped, through tears.  “Forever.” 

A pause. 

And then suddenly, Dean’s strong, expert fingers, running along his cock.  Sam writhed. _“Oh-“_

And then the spanking _again,_ even harder than before.  “Ow!  Ow!  _Dean!_ Please-“

“Forever’s a long time,” Dean said.  Spanking him.  “What makes you say _that_ Sammy?”  Spanking him, _hard._

_“OW!”_

“Well?”  Spanking him.

Sam was sobbing.  “Dean…”

“Answer me,” Dean said.  Another spank.  “Your _real_ answer.  Sam.”

And Dean’s voice changed, suddenly.

And Sam heard it, the change in Dean’s voice. 

His brother’s voice, scraped raw suddenly, the intent, raw tone of it.

So intent on Sam’s answer, the only thing that mattered. 

“Because I love you,” Sam said.  He was crying, helplessly.  “I love you.”

Another pause.  Sam waited, not breathing. 

And then Dean spanked him _again._

Sam moaned.

“Love me _how?”_ Dean asked him harshly. 

Sam didn’t answer, couldn’t, just yet.  He was crying too hard.  Dean’s hands hurting him like this, caressing him, it was too much.

Dean spanked him again, _hard._   Sam moaned, brokenly, his breath hitching in his throat.

“Tell me,” Dean said.  His hand, resting now, lightly on Sam’s burning ass.  “Your _real_ answer.  Sam.”

“Love you with everything I’ve got,” Sam said.  He felt something breaking open inside of him, a deep, tearing pain.  Breaking right through him, distracting him for a moment from the pain in his body. 

 _“Why?”_ Dean whispered.  He was motionless now.

“Because that’s who I am,” Sam said.  He was crying.  “That’s _me.”_

_(You raised me to love you.  And I do.  Despite everything)._

“I love you with everything in me,” Sam said to him, through tears.

A pause. 

Sam crying, helplessly.  Then,

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean whispered.

And then the weight of his body, Dean’s warm, hard body, covering Sam’s body, his lips on Sam’s skin.  Sam felt him fumbling between his legs.  And then Dean’s cock, long and hard, sliding into Sam’s ass, stretching him, filling him.

 _“OH!”_   Sam was moaning again, overwhelmed.  _“Dean-“_

“Baby boy,” Dean was fucking him now, with hard, smooth strokes, a fire of pleasure blazing up.  “Baby.  I love you, love you, _I love you Sammy, I love you.”_   Clutching Sam, pounding into him.  And then reaching under and around, finding Sam’s cock, Dean’s slick fingers and thumb grasping his cock, sliding so perfectly over Sam’s cock.  Sam gasped.  “ _Oh-”_

And then Dean fucking him, caressing him, kissing him, his mouth open on Sam’s skin.  Murmuring to him.  “I fuckin _love you_ _Sammy,_ _love you_ …you c’n come now, come Sammy, come baby…come for me…”  And Dean fucking into him, smooth and hard, shuddering now, Dean’s breath, his body, shuddering, his cock expanding, pulsing deep inside Sam’s ass, releasing into Sam’s ass, the rush of hot fluids.  And Dean, gasping.  _“Sammy- “_

And Sam keening, his voice rough and ragged, broken.  His cock, white hot pleasure blasting through it finally, spurting hard against Dean’s palm, and then that other pleasure, deep inside his ass, exploding through his body like a supernova.

“Dean,” Sam whispered.  He was trembling, shaking.

“You’re mine Sammy,” Dean whispered back.  “Always.”

“I’m yours,” Sam whispered.  Crying.  “Always.”

“I love you,” Dean said. 

“I love you too,” Sam said back to him.  And felt that pain inside of him, tearing him, ripping him open.

“And you’ll always know it,” Sam whispered to his brother.  “No matter what happens.”

 _(Dean, my love)_  

Always.  Despite everything.

No holding back.

Tears running down Sam’s cheeks, endless.

And then Dean, kissing him, quietly.

They were bent over the table, covered with sweat. 

Eventually Dean peeled himself off of Sam and straightened up, groaning.  “God…I’m sore as hell.”

_Seriously?_

“Not half as sore as _me,”_ Sam said to him grumpily.

Dean laughed.  “Guess not.”  He was putting on his clothes.  Then he crouched beside Sam’s left ankle, untied the leather shoelace.  Pulled it off, freeing Sam’s leg.  Rubbed his hand over the marks on Sam’s calf.  “You were pullin on this pretty hard.”

“Yes Dean.”

“Uh huh.”  Dean was crouched beside Sam’s right ankle, unbuckling his belt.  Unwrapped it from Sam’s leg, rubbed his hand over Sam’s leg.

“Mmmm.”

“Feel good Sammy?”

“Yes Dean.”  Dean stood up behind him, patted Sam’s sore butt.  “Red as a cherry,” he said.  “But no bruisin.  How’s it feel, Sammy?”

“Sore,” Sam said.  “But okay, I guess.”  Dean patted him again.  Sam heard him putting his belt back on, the clink of the metal buckle.  He shivered, cold suddenly.

Dean’s voice.  “You okay Sammy?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam said dutifully.

Dean bent over him, kissed him on the cheek.  “You don’t have to say that anymore Sammy,” he said.  “Fun’s over, for today.”

Sam closed his eyes.  “Okay.”  He felt his body start to shake, a delayed reaction against the relief, flooding him.

Dean patted him.  “Don’t be scared,” he said.  “Fun like that is on _your_ say, understand?  Without it, we don’t go there.  Remember that.  Okay?” 

“Okay,” Sam whispered.  Tears, stinging his eyes.  (Dean, his big brother).

“Let’s take these off.”  Dean pulled the panties the rest of the way down Sam’s legs and helped Sam step out of them.  He hung the panties over the back of one of the chairs.  Then he walked around to the other side of the table, stopping in front of Sam’s cuffed hands.  Sam lifted his head, looked up at him. 

Dean stood before him silently, gazing down.  Then he put his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the handcuff key.  Sam stared at this.  The tears in his eyes welled up, spilling down over his cheeks.

Dean unlocked the handcuffs and pulled them off Sam’s wrists.  Ran his thumbs gently over the bruises there.  “You were pullin on these pretty hard,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  He was crying.

Dean bent his head and kissed Sam’s wrists, very gently.  Then he took Sam’s hands in his and helped him carefully up off of the table.  Sam stood silently, crying.

“I’m sorry I did that,” Dean said.  He was holding Sam’s hands in his own.

“Me too,” Sam said. 

Dean put his arms around him.  “I love you,” he said quietly.  “I love you Sam.”

“I love you too,” Sam whispered.  His arms were around Dean’s waist.

“Do you want to leave?” Dean asked him.

“No,” Sam said. 

Dean put his face in Sam’s hair.  Held him, quietly.  Then said, “Never run away.  Okay Sam?  You don’t need to.  You want to leave, you just tell me.  It’ll kill me.  But I’ll help you, I promise.  Okay?  So you promise me.”

“I promise,” Sam whispered.  He was holding Dean tightly.  He was never letting him go, never.  “I’m not goin anywhere,” he whispered.

“Thank you Sammy,” Dean said.  His voice was raw, again.

“Yeah.”  Sam was crying.

“Don’t cry baby,” Dean whispered. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.  He was crying.  “I can’t stop.”

“You don’t have to say sorry,” Dean murmured.  He was kissing Sam’s cheeks, his neck.  Kissed him on the mouth.  Took Sam’s face in his hands and looked at him.  “Everythin will be alright.  I’ll make sure of it.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He smiled tearfully into Dean’s eyes.

Dean smiled back.  “You want your clothes?”

Sam sniffled.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I really do.”

“I’ll go get ‘em,” Dean said.  “You get under the quilt.”

Sam climbed onto the bed, moving gingerly with his sore ass.  He folded the quilt over himself.

Dean had left the shack.  Sam heard the Impala’s door opening, closing.  Then Dean was back inside, a laundry bag in his arms.  He dumped the bag onto the bed.  “Here you go Sammy, help yourself.”

Sam dove into the laundry bag, retrieved a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.  Pulled them on with great relief, not bothering with shorts.

Dean was crouched in front of the wood stove, adding more firewood.  “I’ll have to chop some more tomorrow,” he said.  “This stove eats wood like a bitch.”

“Is there gonna be enough?” Sam asked.  “To get us through till Dad comes?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “There’s half a forest under a tarp at the back of the shack.  Enough for the whole winter.  Just needs to be split, is all.”  He straightened up and went over to the kitchen counter, pouring himself a shot from the whiskey bottle.  Turned and looked at Sam, the glass in his hand.

“Think who ever owns this place is will let us stay on for awhile?” Sam asked.

Dean smiled.  “Maybe,” he said.  “I’ll ask Dad to check into it.  I’m in no hurry to leave.  It’s kinda comfortable here isn’t it?  No one around to bother us.”

“What about school?” Sam asked.  “I’ll have to go back, at some point.”

“We c’n enrol you somewhere around here, if you want,” Dean said.  “Or set you up for homeschoolin.  Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Maybe we c’n go into town together, tomorrow.  Check it out.”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He drained the whiskey from his glass, set it down.  Walked over to Sam, and climbed onto the bed beside him.  Pulled Sam into his lap.

Sam shrieked.  “Ouch!  Dean, watch it!  I’m real sore!”

“Sorry baby.”  Dean was adjusting Sam into his lap, carefully now.  “Jesus you’re gettin big,” he grumbled.

“Um _yeah,”_ Sam replied sarcastically.  “I’m nearly as tall as you are.”  But then he curled himself up, making himself as small as possible.  Snuggled up against Dean’s chest.  Dean kissed the top of his head.

“Maybe I’ll take the winter off,” Dean said.  “Let Dad hunt on his own for a bit.  You ‘n’ me’ll stay here, let you be in one place for awhile.  I’ll find a job.”

Sam raised his head, looked up at his brother.  _“Seriously?”_

Dean smiled down at him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Why not?”

Sam hugged him.  He was crying again.  “I’d love that,” he said, choked.  Buried his face into Dean’s chest. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He stroked Sam’s hair.

“But Dad’ll want the Impala,” Sam said into Dean’s chest.  “And we’re gonna need wheels, if we’re stayin out here.”  He felt Dean shrug.  “I’ll find us a junker, somewhere,” he replied.  “Don’t need a fancy set of wheels if I’m not huntin.  Maybe I c’n get one of the rustbuckets out there in the yard up ‘n’ running.  Somebody used this place as a car graveyard.”

“Our own place,” Sam said.  He raised his head, glanced around at the shabby room.  It seemed like paradise, suddenly, not a prison any longer.  Their place, him and Dean’s.  A home.

He snuggled against Dean again.  “What’ll we _do,_ while we’re here?” he asked pleasurably.

Heard a soft snort of laughter.  “Other than fuck, you mean?” Dean asked him.

Sam laughed too.  “Yeah.”

“You wanna learn how to drive?” Dean asked him.

“-Yeah!”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “I’ll start teachin you tomorrow.”

Sam, snuggled down into Dean’s arms.  “It’s what I’ve always wanted,” he said, more quietly.  “Just bein with _you_ Dean, in our own place, our own life, you know?”

“I know,” Dean said.  “So we’ll try it for awhile, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam whispered.

“I love you Sam,” Dean said.  He sounded serious now.  “And I want you to be happy.  I want that more than anything.  And I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise.”

“I love you too,” Sam whispered.  “I want you to be happy too.”

“Thanks Sammy,” Dean said.

They were quiet. 

Then Dean said, “We’ll make it.  Somehow.”  The sound of Dean’s voice, the hope in it.

Sam, hearing this. 

“Yeah,” he whispered.  “We’ll make it.”

He shivered, suddenly. 

But ignored this, hoped Dean didn’t notice.

Dean and him were together.  And they’d make it.  Somehow.

“It’ll always be you ‘n’ me,” Dean whispered to him.  _“That’s_ what matters.  You ‘n’ me, Sammy.  Forever.”  And Sam could hear the tears now, in his brother’s voice.  Sam tightened his arms around him.  Felt Dean take a shaky breath.

Sam burrowed his face against Dean’s chest. 

_(I love you)_

Felt his brother’s heart, beating slow and steady under his cheek.  Dean kissed his hair, again.

_(Dean)_

Dean here, with Sam, in this moment.  Just here, just with him.

What Sam had always wanted.

And now Dean saying what _he_ wanted, what he _needed,_ from Sam, more than anything.  What only Sam could give him. 

_(I want you to be happy)_

And Sam so happy, hearing this. 

Sam smiled.  He leaned against Dean’s chest, his arms around him, Dean’s arms around him, the two of them holding each other, softly breathing. 

Sam listened to this, the sound of Dean’s breath, of his own breath, so familiar, the sound of their breath in each other’s ears, throughout the years, throughout memory.

But now just in this moment.

Just here, being with each other.

_Being._

Happiness.  It was possible.

Sam shivered.

“Sammy?  You okay?”  Dean’s hands, stroking him gently. 

Sam opened his mouth to answer.  Tried to answer, his mouth working silently.

Just Dean and him, here, holding each other.

_(You ‘n’ me Sammy.  Forever)_

“Say somethin,” Dean whispered.

But Sam was silent.  Frozen suddenly, under the memory.  Of the great silence, rising within him.

“Sammy?” Dean’s whisper, raw again. 

Sam spoke at last, with an effort.  He loved Dean.  And they would be happy.

“Yes Dean,” he said.


	36. Chapter 36

Sam was driving at top speed in their shaking rust bucket of a car (their dad had eventually shown up and reclaimed the Impala – to his credit though, he’d helped Dean get the old Chevy going and stayed a couple of days to ensure it wouldn't die on them before taking off again) down the county road that ran past the dirt road leading to their shack, a winding, narrow road that eventually took them into town.  Dean was sitting shotgun beside him.  Both of them were hooting with laughter.

“Woo – _hoo!”_   Sam’s eyes were on the upcoming curve.  He shifted gears and took the curve with the controlled, laser focus of a race car driver. 

 _“Shit_ Sammy, slow down!”  Dean was still laughing though.

“Gimme a moment.”  Sam’s eyes were on the next curve (this road was _awesome_ – like driving along a roller coaster).  The curve slanted sharply to the left _and_ went down a hill at the same time.  There was a bridge at the bottom of the hill. 

He sped up.

“Fuck Sammy you better nail that or we’re dead,” Dean said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam replied absently.

They zoomed down the curving hill and shot through the narrow passage of the bridge like a bullet.  Then up a straight, steep hill.  Sam drove the Chevy up over the crest of the hill then part way down, the hill sloping gently now.  He slowed so they could take in the view.  Both he and Dean stared out over the winter countryside.  It spread out before them in a blinding white checkerboard of snow covered fields, dotted here and there with houses and barns, sparkling under a bright blue sky.  Blue forest beyond the fields and then the glittering expanse of the ice covered lake, stretching out to the distant horizon.

“Pull over Sam,” Dean said eventually.  “Let’s switch.”  (Sam never drove them all the way into town). 

Sam pulled over to the side of the road.  Both he and Dean climbed out of the car.  Sam saw his breath rise in a white plume, the clear, frigid air immediately biting into his lungs and skin.  He turned to quickly cross over to the passenger side.

Dean was in front of him.  “Not so fast.”  He slammed the driver’s side door closed.  Then crowded Sam up against it.

“What’re you doin?  Jeez!”  Sam was bent over backwards, Dean’s weight pressing his back and butt up against the freezing side of the car.

Dean was kissing him.  “You’re so _hot_ when you’re drivin,” he muttered.  His hands cupped the sides of Sam’s face.  He put his tongue in Sam’s mouth.

“Mmmph,” Sam replied, all he was capable of saying.  Dean’s hot mouth smothering him, Dean’s cock pushing between his legs, Jesus.  Sam was achingly hard suddenly.

He thrust his hips forward, pressing his own cock against Dean’s cock.  Started kissing Dean back.

Dean’s chest was heaving against Sam, the bulge of his cock tight between Sam’s legs.  Sam smiled.  He bit Dean’s mouth.

“-Ouch!”  Dean jumped back.  Sam smiled up at him.  “What’re you _thinkin,_ Dean, doin this out here?” he asked.

“Fuck Sammy, why’d you do that?  And no one’s around.”  Dean glared down at him.  He touched his tongue to his lower lip, gingerly.  “Am I bleedin?”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “No.  Don’t be a baby.   And lemme up.”  He pushed at Dean’s shoulders.

“Uh uh.”  Dean was kissing him again, harder this time.  “Think you c’n bite me huh?” he muttered against Sam’s mouth.  “Little bitch.”

“Dean!”  Sam pushed, trying to slide out from under him.  Dean grabbed a hank of his hair.  “Stay still.”  He pulled Sam’s head back.  Thrust his tongue into Sam’s mouth again, keeping a tight hold on his hair.  Rubbed his cock back and forth between Sam’s legs, a sharp spiral of pleasure following.

Sam felt his body soften helplessly.  He moaned into Dean’s mouth.

“God,” Dean whispered against Sam’s lips.  “I want to fuck you right now.”

“No way,” Sam said weakly.  “It’s the middle of the day, Dean.  Anyone could see us.”

“No one’s out here to see,” Dean replied.  He gripped Sam’s upper arm with one hand and reached over towards the handle of the Chevy’s back door with the other.  “C’mon.”

“—No!” Sam protested.  “It’s too risky Dean, seriously.”

“Well we’ll just lie down together then,” Dean said.  “You gotta give me _somethin.”_   He’d opened the back door.  He gripped Sam’s arm and started to steer him towards the back seat.  Sam dug his heels in ready to struggle, but then the rough sound of a vehicle coming up the hill behind them.

The brothers sprang apart just in time.  A pickup truck, appearing at the top of the hill and descending towards them.  Sam saw this out of the corner of his eye before he turned away, hiding his face from view and hunching his shoulders.  The loud blast of a horn as the pickup truck drove past them.

“See Dean, I _told_ you.”  Sam was speaking between his teeth.  He glanced up warily.  Saw the rear of the pickup truck as it drove past and away from them, in its cabin the dark outlines of two heads, the driver wearing a ball cap.  A slice of pink, the passenger’s face, turned back towards him and Dean.  Sam ducked his head again.  “Did they see anythin?” he asked.

“Nah,” Dean replied easily.  “And even if they did, doesn’t matter.  You look like a girl, from a distance.”

Sam scowled.  “Fuck off,” he said.  He stalked around to the other side of the Chevy, opened the front passenger door and slid in.  Slammed the door.

Dean stayed standing outside for a moment.  Then he bent down and peered through the Chevy’s driver side window.  Observed Sam, glaring at him.  Dean grinned.  He opened the door and climbed in.  He didn’t start the car immediately though, instead sat back.  Looked at Sam.  “Do up your seatbelt,” he said.

Sam grumpily buckled his seatbelt.  “You too,” he said.  Dean hesitated, then buckled himself up (and Sam knew he only did because Sam absolutely refused to wear his seatbelt unless Dean did too).  Sam watched his brother do as he’d asked with sour satisfaction.  “Let’s go,” he said.  “The car’s cold already.”  His hair had fallen over his face (like it _always_ did) and he brushed it back, impatiently.

Dean didn’t reply.  But then he reached out and stroked a hand down the length of Sam’s hair.  “Pretty girl,” he murmured.  Curled a finger around a strand and tugged it, gently.

“I’m cuttin it off,” Sam grumbled. 

“No you’re not,” Dean said.  “You don’t cut it till I say.”

“Well when’ll _that_ be?” Sam asked (his hair was _long_ now, longer than it ever had been, a heavy brown curtain falling past his shoulders).  It was difficult to wash in the primitive setup they had at the shack (using the washtub to bathe in had lost its charm within the first month of living there), and Sam would complain.  But Dean didn’t seem to mind.  And to be fair, _he_ was the one washing Sam’s hair, most of the time.

Dean shrugged.  “Dunno,” he said.  He started the car and pulled smoothly onto the road.

“Dad sees me like this, he’ll freak,” Sam said. 

“Probably,” Dean replied.  He didn’t sound concerned.

“…He say when he’d be by again?” Sam asked.  They’d expected their dad for Christmas but he hadn’t showed (not that Sam was too upset about _that,_ but he knew Dean had been disappointed, even though his brother hadn’t said anything).

“Nope,” Dean said briefly.

Sam considered this.  He’d figured their dad would be pissed with Dean for taking such an extended break from hunting and sure enough, he was (Dean hadn’t shared the specifics of his last phone conversation with their dad with Sam, but he’d been quiet the whole day afterwards, Sam noticed).  Their dad was on another hunt now, clear across the country, in Oregon.  He’d wanted Dean to join him (which would naturally mean packing Sam up and dragging him along too, like a piece of luggage).  But Dean hadn’t joined him and he and Sam were still in Wisconsin, camped out at the shack, Sam still at the same small town high school Dean had enrolled him in shortly after they’d arrived (after several long distance calls between their dad and the high school principal and a fax from their dad giving Dean authorization to act for him – this was after they’d determined the heat was off Dean and there was no risk of him getting arrested).  Sam was pretty settled in to his new school now, amazing the teachers with his stellar grades like always (although not with a group of friends around him like last time, he was following his old practice of keeping to himself, again). 

But it was telling that Dean's last phone conversation with their dad had been in November and it was now early February.  If Dean and their dad had spoken in the interim, Sam hadn’t heard about it.

“I hope he doesn’t show up without warnin,” Sam said.

“Me too,” Dean replied.  But he didn’t seem worried about that either.

Sam was quiet.  Then he reached over and put his hand on Dean’s thigh.  Squeezed it, feeling the hard muscle under the worn denim of his brother’s jeans.  “I love you,” he said quietly.

Dean placed his hand on top of Sam’s hand.  He ran his thumb over the silver ring.  Then he lifted Sam’s hand to his lips and kissed it.  “I love you too princess,” he said.

Sam felt his chest tighten.  Dean, saying that to him.  Dean saying ‘I love you too’ in that _pleased_ voice, like Sam had just given him a present. 

Sam couldn’t get enough of it, hearing that sound in his brother’s voice.  And he’d been saying ‘I love you,’ to Dean a lot lately.

It had started after their last major fight, the morning after that brutal, exquisite spanking Dean had inflicted on him.

Sam had woken up snuggled against Dean’s side.  He lay quietly in the dim cold shack, the fire in the wood stove died out hours ago.  Took stock of himself and his various discomforts -the damp, stretched out soreness of his asshole, the dull throbbing pain in his ass.  His aching wrists, bruised from the handcuffs.  Dean slept peacefully on beside him, one arm thrown over Sam’s body.

Sam sighed.  Then started to move carefully out from beneath Dean’s arm.

Which immediately tightened around him like a vice. 

“Where you goin?”  Dean’s sleepy voice.

“The _bathroom,_ ” Sam said.  “I gotta piss, Dean.”

Dean’s arm lifted.  “Hurry back,” he mumbled.  Then he rolled over onto his other side and settled down like a log, dragging the bedcovers with him.

Sam watched this.  Then he sighed again and levered himself stiffly off the bed.  Made his way to the bathroom, groaning.

Business finished, he returned to stand over Dean’s snoozing form.  Considered him.  He could crawl in beside his brother, snuggle up against Dean’s warm back.  Wait for Dean to turn to him like he did most mornings, his hands and lips warm against Sam’s skin, touching Sam gently then not so gently.  But Sam didn’t want to, suddenly.  After all those hours in handcuffs, _chained to the bed_ …he was eager to be up and about, even if his body was sore. 

He went over to his pile of clothes and found a pair of socks for his cold feet.  Pulled them on.  Then padded over to the stove.  Opened the stove’s iron door, stacked fresh kindling in and lit it.  Waited until the flames were burning brightly then closed the stove’s door again.  Turned around.  Dean was watching him.

“Come back here,” Dean said, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Not right now,” Sam said.  He was hunting around in his pile of clothes.  “Where’s my jacket and shoes?”

Dean propped himself up on one elbow.  “Still in the car,” he said.  “Why?”

Sam had located a pair of boxer shorts and his favorite jeans.  He shucked off his sweatpants and quickly dressed, wincing as he pulled the cold clothes over his raw ass.  “What’re you doing?” Dean asked him.

Sam had tucked his gun into the back of his jeans, settling it against the small of his back.  “Goin out,” he replied.  “Haven’t been outside since we got here.  Gonna look around.  I won’t be long.”  He found Ryan’s shiny leather dress shoes, slipped them on.  They would do for getting him out to the Impala to retrieve his jacket and runners.

“No,” Dean said.

Sam looked at him.  Dean was sitting up now on the bed, his arms folded over his knees, frowning. 

“What?”  Sam asked him.

“I said ‘no,’” Dean repeated.  Looked at Sam.  “You’re not goin out.”

“…Why not?” Sam asked him.

“Because you’re grounded, remember?” Dean answered.

Sam looked at him.  Then said, carefully, “I thought we’d dealt with that.”

“Nope,” Dean said.  He met Sam’s eyes.  “You’re still grounded.  And that means you don’t _go_ _anywhere_ or _do anythin_ without my permission, and right now, you don’t have it.”

Sam stared at him, wordless.  Dean stared back.  Then he patted the mattress, beside him.  “Come back,” he said.  “We c’n go out together after I get up.  There’s this big pond back in the woods, probably a beaver dam, kinda cool.  And I saw couple of hunter’s blinds, must be good huntin around here.  We’ll go explorin.  I’ll take the rifle or maybe the crossbow.  Don’t feel up to butcherin a whole deer but I wouldn’t mind some squirrel.  It’s been awhile since we had game.”

“You serious?” Sam said.

“About what?” Dean asked.

“About me bein grounded,” Sam answered. 

“Yup,” Dean said.

Sam looked at him.

“Why’d you think I wouldn’t be serious?” Dean asked after a moment.

“Because…because I thought you’d gotten over it,” Sam said.  “What happened.  After last night.”

Dean snorted.  “You thought I was over you _messin around with some dude_ and _throwin it in my face_?  Right.”  He took a breath.  Looked down.  “I don’t think I’ll ever be over that, Sammy,” he said quietly.

Sam considered this.  Okay.  So Dean was still raw.  Okay.  Fine.  Sam got it.  But still.

“…So…does that mean I’m grounded for life?” Sam asked.  He smiled tentatively, making it sound like a joke.

Dean didn’t smile back.  “Maybe.”

Sam’s expression was serious now, too.  He was worried.  This conversation could get bad, really fast. 

Because Sam just wasn’t going to do it (just go along with what Dean wanted).  Not right now.

He wanted to go outside.  By _himself,_ thank you very much, he wasn’t a baby. 

And he’d had enough of being treated like a prisoner.

“I said I was sorry,” he said, abruptly.

Dean, looking at him.  “Yes you did,” he agreed.  Didn’t say anything else.

Sam raised his eyebrows.  “So…”  He looked at his brother.

Dean gazed back.  Then shrugged.  “So you might’ve said sorry,” he continued, “but you still meant it.  Meant everything you did, everything you said.  Every word.  You were _real_ clear about that.”

He looked at Sam.  Sam stared back, wordless.

“You meant it all,” Dean said to him.  “Didn’t you?”

And then he was quiet.  Waiting.

Sam stared at him.  The silence stretched out.  Dean was waiting for Sam to tell him he was wrong, Sam realized. 

_(I didn’t mean it, Dean.  You’re over-reactin, like usual.  And it was a mistake, anyways, whatever happened.  You know that.  I made a mistake.  People do that, right?) _

Dean, waiting for this.  And waiting for the other words, too, from Sam.  The most important words.

_(I would never hurt you, Dean.  You know that.  Not on purpose)._

Dean, quiet.  Looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. 

Silence.

“Yeah,” Dean said eventually.  He looked down.

Sam watched this. 

Dean, looking down at his hands, his expression sad.

“Why isn’t it enough?” Sam asked him.  “Me sayin sorry.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said.  He didn’t look up.  “I wish it was,” he said, quietly.

 _Me too,_ Sam thought.  _Me too, Dean._   He felt a desperate anger rising, tamped it down.

Dean’s sadness in front of him, sure.

But Sam still wanted to go out.

And that sadness, of Dean’s, would anything make it go away, anyway? 

_(Make things better for me Sammy)_

It’s not like Sam hadn’t tried.

Angry.  He was so angry right now.  But _that_ wasn’t going to get them anywhere.  Him or Dean.

“Okay.  I get it,” Sam said.  Dean looked at him.

“You just need…more from me, I guess,” Sam continued in a reasonable voice.  “Before you c’n let it go.  I get it.”

Dean gazed at him.  Sam felt the weight of his brother’s gaze.  Dean was looking at him carefully, searching for any sarcasm behind Sam’s words.  Sam kept his expression calm.  “Yeah,” Dean said, after a moment.  “You’re right, Sammy.  I need more from you than just ‘sorry.’”

“You need me…bein grounded,” Sam finished for him.

“…Yeah,” Dean said.  He was gazing at Sam steadily.  “I need that.” 

Sam was silent.  He looked back at Dean.  At Dean, waiting, and Sam.

The both of them, waiting.  

Waiting.  Tensely.

Because this conversation could go one of two ways.

Sam could argue.  Tell Dean he was being unfair, being an asshole.  (And then they would fight and…whatever).  Those fights always ended up with him and Dean skin to skin, attacking each other like enemies, striving against each other with a fierce, desperate pleasure.  And Sam could see it in Dean’s eyes, that spark of interest, Dean’s awareness of where this conversation could lead. 

Or…Sam could give in.  Tell Dean he’d do what Dean wanted, be what Dean wanted _(obedient, sticking close),_ for as long as Dean wanted _(forever)._   Let Dean ground him, let Dean tell him what to do.  Forever.  Because Sam was _his_ , he belonged to Dean, and this was Dean’s right, to expect that of him.

Sam could do that.  He was good at it.  Most of the time.  And Dean counted on him for that, he knew.

And if Sam forgot, disrespected that understanding between them, well…

Saying sorry just wasn’t enough.

Sam saw how this could go, so clearly.  Both paths, so familiar.

One of two ways. 

And he was angry, seeing this.  Angry, angry.  And first thing in the morning too.  Not fair.

Any of it, Jesus.

Sam looked at his brother, waiting for him to say something.  To move them on from this moment.

“Groundin me…like a little kid,” he said.  He heard the anger enter his voice in spite of his efforts, his words sharp and cold.

Dean looked at him.  Set his jaw.  “Yeah,” he replied flatly.

And Sam could see Dean readying himself.  Getting ready to fight.

_(To spring off the bed, to wrestle Sam down.  To subdue Sam, in the way they both knew he could do it.  Dean just waiting for the words, now.  Sam’s harsh words releasing him, to do this)._

“Because I _am_ just a kid, right?” Sam said to him.

And Dean’s expression, broken open suddenly.

“I _am_ just a kid,” Sam said again, watching him. 

And he heard his own voice, calm, ice cold.  Coldly matter-of-fact.

Dean stared back, wordless.

“You know that, right?” Sam asked him.

The two of them, watching each other now, silent.

“I know,” Dean said, finally.  And then he looked down.

Sam observed this, Dean’s lowered face, tight now, clenched into an expression of pain.

“Just a kid,” Sam repeated, softly.

“I know,” Dean whispered.  He’d closed his eyes.

“Your kid,” Sam said. 

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. 

Sam, watching him.  “Your kid,” he repeated, tenderly.

“Stop,” Dean whispered.  His eyes, closed tightly.

“Your kid…who you’re raising right,” Sam said.  He watched Dean, unblinking. 

Dean flinched.  Sam saw him bend forward slightly from the waist, like he’d just taken a hit to the gut.

“Your little brother,” Sam said.  “Who you look after, right?”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He hadn’t opened his eyes.  “You’re killin me.  Please.  Stop.”

Sam, silent.  Watching his brother. 

And eventually speaking, when he saw Dean wasn’t going to.

“I _am_ sorry,” Sam said.  “For everything I did.  Everything I said, that might’ve hurt you.”

Paused. 

Dean didn’t say anything.

“But I know that’s not enough,” Sam continued.  “I get that.  Dean.”

He fell silent again.

Dean was silent too.  Sam watched him, his brother’s closed eyes, the tight mouth, the way Dean was bent over himself, protectively. 

Dean had heard his words, Sam knew.  And Dean knew what they meant. 

Sam not just apologizing. 

_(You wait for me to make things right, Dean.  You wait and you show me that you’re waiting.  But you’re not the only one.  I know about waiting, too)._

Silence, between them.

And then Dean answered him.

“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly, without looking up.  “Sam.”

Sam didn’t reply.  He stayed silent.  Listening. 

“Sam…” Dean continued, after a moment.   

Sam, silent.

 _“…I’m sorry about everythin,”_ Dean whispered, painfully.

Silence.

Sam listening, not speaking.  Barely breathing.

But watching his brother now, closely. 

Dean sitting there in front of him, his shoulders slumped, his face so terribly sad.

But saying those words. 

Saying them. 

Those words, so important.

Dean saying them.

But still.

“But that’s still not enough, right?” Sam asked him.

“No,” Dean said.  And his face twisted suddenly.

“It isn’t,” he whispered.

And Sam heard the grief now, in Dean’s voice, how deep it was, a deep, dark well of grief.  Descending, down, down, into the dark depths of the earth. 

The broken sound of Dean’s voice, saying that.

Sam silent.  Listening to that sound.  But also realizing something.  Understanding something now, too.

Dean was right.  And Sam was right too. 

_(I’m sorry)_

Those words not enough.  For either of them.

Sam watched Dean sitting on the bed, his brother breathing carefully.  Dean’s eyes tightly closed, like he'd never look at Sam again.

_(I’m sorry)_

_(for everything)_

_(Sam)_

Those words.  Still not enough.  Sam understood this.

But suddenly he wasn’t angry anymore. 

The bitter anger shrouding him, wrapped around him, smothering, it was gone, suddenly.  Sam felt it lift away.

He looked down at Dean.  Saw Dean’s hard, delicate face that drew hungry eyes wherever he went.  The shock of dark blonde hair, like rough silk to the touch.  And Dean’s body, that graceful, powerful body, hunched now, but capable of violent action within the blink of an eye.  To attack, to protect.  A warrior’s body, honed by years of hard training. 

Dean.  Sam looked down at him, consideringly.

A weapon, that’s what Dean was.  And a beautiful one, like a samurai sword.  Forged by this ugly life, but so beautiful, finally.

Sam looked down at this familiar sight, his beautiful, dangerous brother, in front of him.  Dean, before Sam’s eyes always, for Sam’s entire life. 

Growing up with this, this weapon, close to hand.  Dean, forged by their dad for a use, to be used by their dad for his own specific purposes, but Sam wanting Dean too, finally. 

For himself.  Regardless.  And seeing the danger, sure. 

Seeing it.  Knowing it. 

But regardless.  Sam understood this.

Wanting Dean, this beautiful weapon, before him.  Wanting him.  And that vast finality, beyond thought, beyond grief. 

Sam, wanting.  And his understanding of that. 

Apologies irrelevant.

Sam silent.  In the face of this final knowledge, silent.  But not angry.  Not anymore.

_(But sad though, he understood that too/but no)_

Watching Dean, in silence.

Grief irrelevant too.

Sam bent and slipped off Ryan’s shoes.  Pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and laid it on the coffee table with a soft clink.  Dean opened his eyes.  He looked up.

Sam smiled at him.  Then he climbed back onto the bed.  Knelt up on the mattress, facing Dean.  Then put both hands on Dean’s shoulders and pushed him backwards.  Landed on top of Dean’s body with a thump.

“Oof!” Dean said.  “What-“

Sam was kissing him.  “I’m your little brother,” he said against Dean’s mouth.

“Sammy, what-“

Sam kissed Dean’s mouth again.  Several times.  “And you’re my biiiig brother,” he said, smiling.  Squirmed around on top of Dean’s body. 

Dean’s hands had settled thoughtlessly on Sam’s back.  “Sammy,” he muttered against Sam’s lips.  “What’re you-“

“-and I _love_ you,” Sam said.  He kissed Dean again.  “I love you, love you, love you Dean, _I love you!”_  

And kissed him, feeling Dean’s mouth start to soften under his, opening. 

Sam raised his head.  He looked down at Dean.  Saw his brother looking back at him, wide eyed. 

Dean’s wide green eyes, gazing wonderingly up.

Sam smiled at him. 

“I love you, Dean,” he said softly.  And looked down into those wide open eyes, blinking up, the grief that had darkened them gone now, forgotten, just Dean’s wide, green, beautiful eyes in front of him, that clear, light green. 

And Sam’s own eyes, so close to his brother’s eyes.  Sam’s eyes, staring down.  A message in them.

_(I love you Dean.  And that’s what matters, finally.  That’s what covers everything)._

Sam, looking down at his brother like this, intently.

_(I love you)_

_(Dean)_

Sam dipped his head, put his nose against Dean’s nose.  “So what do you say _back?”_ he asked him.

“Sammy-“

Sam rubbed his nose back and forth against Dean’s nose.  “What do you _say?”_ he coaxed.

“I love you too,” Dean answered softly.  He paused, looking up.  Then he smiled suddenly, a wide open smile, covering his whole face.  “I love you too!”  His arms went around Sam and he hugged him, pulling Sam down hard against his chest.  Sam was laughing now, giggling actually.  He buried his face into Dean’s throat.  But then he propped himself up again and gazed down. 

At Dean’s upturned smiling face.  Smiling, surprised.  _Pleased_.  Dean gazing up him, smiling with a wondering pleasure.

Had Dean ever smiled like this before?  Sam couldn’t remember.

_(I love you too!)_

“Say that again, Dean,” Sam said. 

“What?”

“Say that again!  What you just said!”

Dean frowned.  _“What?”_

Sam rolled his eyes.  “I love you…” he prompted, patiently.

“Um, okay-“

“…So say it _back!”_  And Sam let himself fall heavily onto Dean’s body with a thump.

 _“Oof!”_   Dean said.

 _“Say it!”_ Sam was jouncing up and down, wriggling on top of Dean, Dean’s arms automatically folding around him.

“-I love you too,” Dean said.  “Sammy, oof, c’mon-” But he was breathless now, laughing.

“Again!”  Sam demanded.  And wriggled against his brother.  Hard.

_“Sammy-“_

“Again, Dean!”  Wriggling.  Kissing.  Kissing Dean’s neck, his face, his ears.  His chin, his nose.

Dean laughing, trying to bat Sam away ineffectually.  “I love you _too,_ Sammy, Jesus, enough already-“

And Sam kissing his mouth with a smack.  “Again!”  And wriggling, romping around on top of Dean’s body like he was a kid again, like he was just five years old, not fifteen.  Dean laughing.

And then Sam kissing his brother, again.  “Well?”

“I love you too,” Dean replied, muffled, against Sam’s mouth.  His hands had settled warm against Sam’s back.

“Again,” Sam said.  He was nuzzling Dean now.

“I love you too,” Dean said.  And his arms around Sam, holding him.

“Again,” Sam murmured.  He went limp, letting his body fall heavily over Dean like a rug.  Buried his face in Dean’s throat.  Nuzzled against Dean’s warm throat.

“I love you too,” Dean murmured back.  And those warm strong hands, holding Sam so closely now, Sammy, his precious package.  “I love you too, Sam.”

And the sound in Dean’s voice, when he said that. 

Dean saying that, with such surprised pleasure.

Like he’d just gotten a present, something he wasn’t expecting. 

But something he was glad to get though.  Something he’d wanted.  A lot.

_(I love you too, Sam)_

Dean’s voice.  Surprised.  Happy.  A little freaked out.

Dean saying that like he’d just realized he could say it.  Just like that, so simple.

Sam wanted to hear it again.

“I love you, Dean,” he said quietly.

“I love you too,” Dean answered.

And Dean holding Sam now, quietly, his hard chest rising and falling under the weight of Sam’s body.   His warm lump of a brother.  Holding Sam so carefully, tenderly.

Dean, settling Sam down so carefully on top of his own body.  With such pleasure.  Sam sighed luxuriously.  Then said,

“So…c’n I go out now?”

“…What?” Dean said.  His hands, lightly stroking Sam’s back.

“Go out!”  Sam said.  “Lemme go out, Dean.  C’mon.”

“Oh,” Dean said.  His hands stilled.  “I dunno,” he said.

“Dean!”  Sam said.   He leaned in, pressing his brother into the bed.  “C’mon.  Please?”

Dean sighed.  “I dunno,” he said, again.  “Can’t you just wait for me?  Lemme have a coffee ‘n’ then I’ll go out with you.”  His hands starting to stroke Sam’s back, again.

“No!” Sam said.  He raised his head, glared down.  Saw Dean looking back at him, the green eyes wary now.

“You’ve kept me chained up inside since we got here!”  Sam said.  “I haven’t seen daylight since Friday!  Jesus!  Lemme go _out,_ already!  Now!”

Dean looking at up him.  He was undecided, Sam saw.  Reluctant to let Sam out of his sight but also reluctant to leave this new, light mood, between them.  Sam considered Dean for a moment then descended on him again, kissing him.  “Who loves you?” he asked fiercely.

And kissing Dean with hard fast kisses, like little bites, Dean starting to twist his head under these.  Protesting.  “Mmmph, Sammy-“

 _“Who_ loves you?” Sam repeated.  And kissing him.  Kissing Dean again and again and again, smothering him with kisses.  Dean’s throat, his face, his mouth.

He felt Dean’s mouth softening, opening. 

“Who loves you?”  Sam asked him.  Kissing, kissing.  “Who _loves you loves you loves you?”_

“Sammy, Jeez-“  Dean was twisting his head back and forth, trying to avoid Sam’s attacking mouth, but he was starting to smile, again.

Sam kissed him.

“Tell me!” Sam said.

Kissed him.

“You do,” Dean said.  Sam paused the attack and looked down at him.  Dean was smiling up at him, his eyes wide again.  Surprised, happy.  Like a kid seeing snow for the first time.  Like a kid on Christmas morning.

Sam felt his chest tighten _(Dean)_.  But he wasn’t going to let himself get sappy.  Not yet.

“That’s right,” he said in a righteous voice.  “Me.”  And he started kissing Dean again, busily.  “I love you.  Love you love you love you.  So stop _worryin about everythin!”_   Kissing him.  “Let it _go,_ already.”

Dean frowned.  “Um…” 

Sam looked at him.  “Stop worryin,” he said again.  “Let it go.  Okay?  I love you.”

Dean stared at him.

Sam tried again.  “I love you, Dean,” he said.  “Okay?  And everything’s going to be fine.”

Dean, staring.

It was like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  He liked it, of course.  Just couldn’t believe it.

Sam saw this.  He rolled his eyes.  “I love you,” he said, again.  “Okay?”

Dean frowned.  “Um, sure, but-“

“Dean!” Sam yelled at him.  He was an inch away from Dean’s face but yelling at the top of his lungs.   “Just stop it!  Cut it out!”

Dean winced.  “Sammy, fuck, that was fuckin loud-“

“I don’t care!” Sam yelled.  He was right in front of Dean, yelling up his brother's nose.  Hopefully his words would get up there, penetrate Dean’s thick brain.  “I love you!  So stop bein an _idiot!”_

Dean wincing but he was laughing again.  “You think I’m an idiot, huh?”  He gripped Sam’s upper arms, attempting to move him out of the permanent-damage-to-hearing zone.

Now Sam was laughing too.  In spite of himself.  “Yeah,” he answered.

Then he bent down and kissed Dean’s mouth, letting his lips linger this time.  “But I love you anyway,” he said.  And felt Dean’s lips part under his.

Sam sat up.  He positioned himself carefully on Dean’s body, straddling him.  “And now that we’re clear on _that_ …” he bent down and kissed Dean’s mouth, “…may I please…” kissed him, “…have your _permission_ …” kissed him, “to go out…” kissed him, “…for a _walk!”_  

“Um…”

“Dean!”  Sam was yelling again.  “C’mon!”  He glared down at his brother. 

And saw Dean staring back at him, stubbornly.

Sam set his teeth.  Enough already.

He leaned forward.  Gripped Dean’s body tightly between his thighs.  Gazed down at Dean very sincerely.  Dean’s eyes widened. 

He started tickling Dean’s ribs.

 _“Hey!”_   Dean shoved at him, trying to buck him off. 

Sam clamped onto Dean like a rodeo rider and kept on tickling him, hooting.

 _“Sammy!”_   But Dean was laughing helplessly.  “Cut that the fuck out!”  He grabbed Sam around the waist and tried to remove him.

Unsuccessfully.

Sam was stronger now, and he was determined.  He clasped Dean’s body ruthlessly between his legs and tickled his brother with a will, aiming for the ribs and underarms.

“Aaauughhh!”  Dean was bucking, batting at him.  But he was laughing, wheezing, breathless now.

“How’d you like _that?”_ Sam said.  Tickling him.  “Feels great, huh?”

“You little brat!” Dean gasped.  He was thrashing feebly around, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.  Sam kept tickling him, breathless with laughter now too.  Saw Dean look at him.  Dean was still laughing but then his eyes went dark.  He focused on Sam with new attention.  Started to sit up.

Sam saw this and scrambled out of Dean’s reach just in time.  He jumped off the bed and stepped back.

The two brothers stared at each other, breathing hard.

“So?” Sam asked, eventually.

“So what?” Dean replied.  Sam could see he was contemplating getting up and coming after him.  Sam stepped back further. 

“So…c’n I go out?”  Sam asked.  And then he smiled at Dean, encouragingly.

Dean sat there, staring at him.  Taking in Sam’s hopeful expression.

Thinking about how to answer this.  Sam saw this.  He stood there, waiting silently.

Dean sighed.  Then shrugged.  Said, “Fine.  Go out.”  Then he gave Sam a reluctant smile.  “You win, you little brat.”

Sam stood still a moment longer.  He felt his body slowly start to relax.  He’d been tense as wire, he realized.  Then he knelt, cautiously, his eyes still on Dean.  Put on Ryan’s shoes again.  Rose to his feet and smiled back, tentatively.  “Thanks Dean, you’re the best.”

Dean was gazing at him ruefully.  “Uh huh.”

“I love you,” Sam said, still tentatively.  And saw Dean’s eyes soften.

“I love you too,” Dean said.

In that new voice.

Like he was just saying it for the first time.  Like he was just hearing himself say it, the pleasure rising fresh and new.

Sam’s smile faded.  He picked up his gun and tucked it back into his jeans.  Gazed thoughtfully down at Dean’s face.

Dean’s eyes on him, so pleased, surprised.  Hopeful.  And Sam’s chest tight now, seeing this.

_(Dean.  I do love you.  Honest.)_

“I won’t be long,” he said.  “Just get some fresh air, check the place out.  Our new home, right?”

Dean nodded.  He was still looking at Sam, still looking kind of…blindsided.  Like he’d just opened a door, the same one he’d opened a million times already, but now found himself staring at…something else.

Surprised.  But really pleased too.  It felt really nice, actually, having Dean look at him like that.

Sam nodded back, cautiously.  Dean’s new expression.  It was great, but Sam still wanted to get out of there.  Before Dean said something.  Opened his mouth, and ruined things.

But then Dean _did_ something.

Something that made _Sam_ stare.  Like a kid seeing first snow, like a kid on Christmas morning.

This wonderful sight, unfolding in front of him.

Unexpected, what Dean did.  But so welcome, like something Sam had waited for his whole life.

Not knowing, not understanding its awesomeness until it was _there,_ right in front of his eyes. 

Dean looking at him, the green eyes taking Sam in. 

And Sam holding himself still under that gaze, like he always did.  _(And he loved the way Dean looked at him, he did, truly.  But he’d always hold himself still under it.  Sam had noticed this, about himself.  How he'd hold himself still, under Dean’s gaze)._

Holding himself still.  Ready.

But then.

Sam saw Dean relax.  Deliberately, relaxing his body, letting his muscles go slack.  Dean smiled at him again, offhandedly this time, then flopped back on the bed.  He pulled the quilt up over himself, his arms and legs settling in a careless sprawl.

Sam motionless, staring.  Silent. 

“Okay,” Dean said casually.  _“You_ might as well take the crossbow then.  Bring us back some game.” 

He glanced at Sam, smiling.  Didn’t appear to notice that Sam was frozen in place.  “You find a squirrel that’ll hold still long enough for you that is,” he said.  “Like a…blind, deaf _grandma_ squirrel.”

“…Fuck off,” Sam replied, after a moment.  He smiled back, started to breathe.  “I rock that crossbow and you know it.  Beat out you ‘n’ Dad any day.”

Dean, grinning at him now.  “Sure,” he said.  “Okay Tiger.  Whatever you say.  Rock on.”

Sam grinned back.  He saw Dean’s eyes on him, warm and lazy.  And Sam loved that look too.  That warm, lazy look of Dean’s, caressing…he loved it.  But he still felt the urge to leave, before Dean could change his mind. 

But he didn’t leave.  Because now he saw something else.  Something even more awesome.

Dean had stopped looking at him.  He rolled over, burrowing himself into the bed.  Put his arms around his pillow and plumped it up, settling his face into it with a sigh.  Shifted his butt around, getting comfortable.  A foot appeared, popping out from beneath the covers.  Sam saw his brother's foot test the cold air of the room and then withdraw, tucking itself away.

Sam staring, at this awesome, wonderful sight.

Of Dean, getting ready to snooze again.  Clearly not too worried about _Sam,_ that little Boy Scout.  So set on tromping through cold woods first thing in the morning, ugh.

Sam felt himself grinning, helplessly.  He stood there, gazing at his comfortable lump of a brother.  Stood there, taking this in.  Then turned and left the shack, closing the door quietly.

And now, fresh air.

Sam alone, walking through the grey, silent woods, the crossbow over his shoulder.  Breathing in all that fresh, clean air, conscious of the miles of empty country around him.  All that space, surrounding him.  And just him, walking through it.

But not solitary, not lonely.  Sam was conscious of a warm, cozy feeling, inside of himself.

Because of Dean, his knowledge of Dean, of his brother back at the shack, lying in bed waiting for Sam to come home from his various activities.  Just like Sam would wait for Dean, so many times. 

Dean, just letting Sam go out.  By himself, like it was no big deal.  Dean deciding that he wanted a little more time for himself, snoozing in bed.

Dean, showing Sam that he could do this.

A message, there.

_(You win)_

And for this to be okay.  Dean also showing Sam this.   That this was…okay.

_(Dean smiling at him)_

_(You little brat)_

Sam walked through the woods, thinking about this.  Aware of the warmth, suffusing him.

He did love Dean.  He loved him a lot.

And it was surprisingly easy, saying `I love you’ to Dean (and it made Dean a lot easier to deal with, too).

And then the sight of Dean smiling back him, with that wide open, _happy_ smile.

That was great too.

Sam felt really good.  He looked up, suddenly seeing a squirrel, perched high on a leafless branch. 

Sam paused.  Then quietly readied the crossbow. 

Took aim.

Bull’s eye.

And now driving into town, his hand on Dean’s thigh. 

Watching Dean as his brother drove their horrible car with his signature, easy grace, green eyes steady on the narrow winter road, seeing the clean, pure lines of Dean’s profile, heartbreakingly beautiful, the silhouette of a young god, an angel, a warrior king, stamped on an ancient coin. 

Dean glanced at him.  “What?”

“What time should I come by?” Sam asked (Dean was working the late shift at the diner today, he had a job as a short order cook now, his second job in town after his first one at the auto body shop hadn’t ended so well). 

Dean looked back at the road.  “After the laundry’s done, I guess.  Unless you want to stay at the library till it closes.”

“It’s Saturday,” Sam said.  “Library closes early.  At five.  I think maybe I’ll go to the library first, then do the laundry after it closes and they kick me out (the coin op laundromat they’d been using was open until ten).  Then I’ll come meet you.  You’re workin till eleven thirty, right?”

“Yeah.  You come by ‘n’ set up in the back booth.  I’ll fry you a steak.”  Dean got free meals as part of his deal with Cal, the diner’s owner, and Sam was conveniently included on the meal ticket too (Shelley, Cal’s wife, thought Dean’s little brother was adorable, and especially after Sam had started tutoring Jackson, Cal and Shelley’s son who was also in grade ten  – Jackson had been struggling miserably until Sam noticed and stepped in, and on his last math test he’d scored an eighty-five –that test now posted on their family’s kitchen fridge, Jackson had told Sam, shyly, the first time he’d received an A for anything…ever).  “You c’n lie down, you get sleepy,” Dean said.  “Shelley won’t mind.” 

“Who’s on shift tonight?” Sam asked him.

“Shelley ‘n’ Rhonda, till dinner rush’s done.  Then just Rhonda, till closin.” 

“Oh.” Sam grimaced.  (Rhonda was one of the diner’s two waitresses, and Shelley’s second cousin’s niece, or some such thing.  She had a major thing going for Dean -of course- and she and Patricia, the other waitress, always went wild over Sam whenever he showed up at the diner –their hot new cook’s cute little brother).  They were still shy with Dean (which wasn’t unusual Sam had noticed, a lot of girls found Dean’s incredible looks intimidating).  But neither of them was shy with _Sam,_ teasing and fussing over him flirtatiously like they wished they could do with Dean, Sam supposed.  Dean thought this was hilarious, but Sam found all the cooing and fluttering fairly irritating (and the two girls were way older than him too, they were like, _Dean's_ age, I mean…c’mon, already), _especially_ as he couldn’t respond in kind (if he’d started giving out what he was getting and flirting _back,_ Dean would stop thinking it was funny pretty fast).

Dean grinned at him.  “Be nice to her and she’ll make you a chocolate sundae.”

“Uh huh.”  Sam thought about the last time Rhonda had been on shift when he’d come in, settling into his usual back booth closest to where Dean cooked.  Rhonda had wandered over on her break and slid into the seat beside him.  Started playing with Sam’s hair (and why did girls _do_ that, anyway?)  He’d looked pleadingly over at Dean to rescue him but Dean just smirked.

“Maybe I won’t come by right away,” Sam said.  “I’ll go to the arcade once the laundry’s done.  Shoot pool for a couple hours.”

“…Practicin?” Dean asked casually. 

“Sure,” Sam said.  “But I can’t hustle though, arcade’s underage.  I’d get kicked out, they found out I was bettin.”

“You’re not hustlin anyways,” Dean said.  He looked serious now.  “You leave that to me ‘n’ Dad, Sammy.”

“…Ever?” Sam asked him.

“Ever,” Dean said.  His voice was final. 

Sam didn’t argue.  He thought their dad might have opinions on that, but…they’d leave that discussion for another day.  And Dean hadn’t hustled pool recently anyway, not since they’d needed that last hit of cash for their car.  And Sam was fine with that.  He’d been pretty upset when Dean had come back from that last time with a black eye (this had been before their dad showed up to take back the Impala and Dean had been out hustling, alone).

“I’ll be huntin soon though,” Sam said.  “I bet next time Dad shows up he’ll want me out.  After all, he was takin _you_ out right after you turned sixteen.  Huntin _and_ hustlin.”

“We’ll see,” Dean said.  He stared grimly at the road.

Sam observed this, then gave a mental shrug.  Okay.  So they’d see.  But hopefully not for awhile.  He was in no hurry for their dad to show up again.  Like, ever.

“You think I c’n get a sandwich from Cal, before I go to the library?” he asked.

He saw Dean relax.  “Don’t see why not,” Dean said.  “Cal’ll probably throw in some fries, too.”

“That’d be good,” Sam said (he was hungry _all_ the time, now).  “I’m starvin.”

Dean snorted.  “Already?”

Sam shrugged, grinned.  “Hey, I’m a growing boy.”

Dean glanced at him.  His eyes were warm now, smiling.  “You sure are,” he said.  “Growin like a weed tree.”  And his voice was warm too, a warm caress.  Pleased.  Proud.

Sam smiled, hearing this.  He couldn’t help it.  He _loved_ hearing Dean say things to him like that, in that warm, fond, _proud_ voice, like Sam was just something so awesome.  Like Sam was _awesome,_ just because he was growing (and Sam _was_ growing, he was slightly taller than Dean now).  Just by growing, just by taking up space.  Just by _being there_ , part of the planet.   

Awesome.  That’s what Sam was, to Dean, and about this Dean was totally clear.  

That he was totally fine, with that.

It was great, hearing that, in Dean’s voice.

Sam stretched his legs out comfortably, luxuriating in the blast of heat from the car’s heater.  He gazed idly out at the white winter landscape.  It was wicked cold out, not comfortable weather to stand talking on a payphone on the street, and Sam wasn’t looking forward to shivering under the freezing wind that would howl into town off the lake, struggling to hear Aaron over the sound of traffic and wind noises.  But whatever.  Aaron would be waiting for him, Sam had promised him he’d call today and Aaron would be waiting.  Sam put his hands in his pockets, gauging the handfuls of change.  He had enough quarters for the laundry, but not enough for a long distance call, especially if it lasted awhile.

“I should pick up some groceries while I’m waitin for the laundry to finish,” Sam said.  “Set us up for tomorrow.”  (Dean had Sunday off and they were planning to hang out all day at the shack).  “Plus I need to get some lunch stuff for school.  C’n I have some money?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  “How much do you want?”

“I dunno, maybe like, twenty?” Sam said.  “Whatever you have.”

“Here.”  Dean reached into his jacket pocket, took out his wallet, and flipped it to Sam.  “Take forty.  Load us up.”  Sam caught the wallet, withdrew two twenties and handed it back.  “Thanks.  Is there anythin you want in particular?”

“Nah,” Dean said.  “Well maybe some snacks.  Nothin sweet though, more like chips.  Shelley’s givin us whatever pie’s left at the end of the day.”  He grinned at Sam briefly.  “Pie leftovers.  Not a bad perk, huh?  We didn’t do so bad on them last week.  Hey Sammy?”

“Leftovers,” Sam said.  “Right.  Shelley _baked_ us that whole pie to take home on _purpose._   That wasn’t a _leftover.”_

Dean grinned.  “As I said.  Perks.”

Sam smiled at him.  Dean, looking so pleased with himself.  “Guess so,” he replied. 

 Dean was fiddling with their car’s radio.  “God, I wish this beast had a tape deck,” he grumbled.

“Why, you’re missin listenin to Megadeth for the millionth time?” Sam asked him.

“Fuck off,” Dean said.  “Guess we’ll have to settle for top forty.”  He turned up the radio, the sound of Oasis surrounding them.  Dean made a face.  “Ugh.  Brits.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “You’re such a troglodyte,” he said.

“Yup,” Dean agreed cheerfully.  “That’s me.   American Primitive.”

Sam smiled absently.  “Don’t worry, I love you anyway,” he said.  He was thinking about what to do once they got to town.  He’d eat lunch, he decided, and then pick up the groceries.  Change out a twenty, get some more quarters.  Stash the food, call Aaron, and then head to the library.  It was cold enough that the food would be fine to keep in their car’s trunk. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “You do.”

After a moment Sam realized that Dean was answering him.  His brother’s voice, so pleased.

Sam smiled.  Then he reached out again and put his hand on Dean’s thigh.

They rode like that the rest of the way into town.


	37. Chapter 37

Dean loved Sam’s hair long. 

I mean, it had always been _kind of_ long (shaggy/in Sam’s eyes).  Sam always put off cutting his hair for as long as possible, and it drove their dad batshit (and Sam knew this, of course).

But he’d never grown his hair long for its _aesthetic_ value. 

That was Dean’s thing.

Dean had been the one responsible for dragging Sam to the barber since forever, and Sam had always found it really easy to talk him into delaying the trip by a week…and then another week (and this _also_ drove their dad batshit – Dean didn’t get points for giving in to Sam…their dad called that being soft).

But Dean had always loved Sam’s hair long.  Even when his brother was a kid, years before he and Sam had gone where they had.

He wasn’t sure why.

But just the sight of Sam’s silky, floppy hair, hanging over his forehead, Sam’s weird colour puppy eyes peeking out from underneath, it gave Dean the warm fuzzies.

And now that tangle of silky brown hair…it made for a nice silky handful in Dean’s fist too.  Great for yanking Sam’s head back, baring his brother’s throat, tilting Sam’s mouth up. 

It was pretty convenient, all that hair, for moving Sam around.  Positioning him.

And knowing that he could just reach out and _grab_ Sam _,_ grab his aggravating adorable bitchy little brother by his _hair,_ pull Sam’s head back by grabbing a handful of that thick, silky hair… _fuck_ that was a turn on.

Call it payback.  For the aggravation that Sam would regularly inflict on him.  Plunging his hands into Sam’s hair and yanking on it…it made Dean feel better ( _somewhat_ better) about those times he spent on the receiving end of his smart little brother’s sharp little tongue.

And _now_ Sam’s hair, flowing past his shoulders, a lion’s mane, thick and gleaming.  As a thing, a substance, a _reality,_ it was…indescribable.  It was like the thickest, silkiest, warmest blanket ever.  It was like a physical event, just _being_ around that hair, like going for a walk in the rain.  Burying his hands in it, burying his face in it, burrowing himself into the warm, soft, generous, all encompassing _surroundings_ of Sam’s hair…it was like coming home.

Of course _washing_ Sam’s hair, with pots of water heated on the wood stove and his brother sitting grumpily in the metal washtub, complaining, that was a bitch.  But Dean didn’t mind all that much.  Grumpy Sam was cute too, especially as Dean would settle him down afterwards by cuddling him in bed, Sam’s head wrapped in a towel.  And eventually that towel would come off, Sam’s damp head quickly disappearing under the covers out of the cold air, Sam laying that mess of damp hair on Dean’s stomach, _Dean_ grumbling now, and then lower, Sam’s head between Dean’s legs now, Sam’s hot smooth lips doing things between Dean’s legs that would eventually have Dean moaning, thrashing around, the two of them ending up tangled up together on the bed, joined by the length of Dean’s white hot blazing cock, thrust deep into Sam’s mouth, and with Dean’s hands buried in Sam’s hair, clutching fistfuls of the stuff, grabbed on so tight to that strong, fine, endless hair.

So yeah.  Sam’s hair.  It was too much, seriously.

Observing Sam from behind, his brother rising naked from the bed, those slim, strong shoulders and lean arms, that slender muscled, silky back and the graceful curve of Sam’s hips, that firm round butt, those long gleaming satin legs…not an ounce of fat on Sam, his body all smooth, taut muscle, but a slender, well knit, _fine_ quality to those long limbs, a delicacy about Sam that didn’t disappear as he grew taller.  And then that shining satin waterfall, that _hair,_ like a shampoo commercial…Dean would come up behind his brother, wrap his arms around Sam’s waist and bury his face in Sam’s hair luxuriously.  And Sam would let his head fall back and lean himself against Dean’s chest, that lithe body slinking up against Dean like an eel.  And then with Sam nestling his firm round tight little butt into Dean’s crotch…at that point Dean’s hands would be on Sam’s hips, steering him back to the bed or towards the table, Sam laughing.

And afterwards, lying together sweaty and exhausted, their legs flopped over each other, both of them lazy now after sex, Sam’s head resting on the pillow beside him, Sam’s puppy eyes with their eerie changeable colour blinking at him, and Dean gently stroking Sam’s hair.

Dean could die happy, just doing that.

But mostly they ended up talking. 

Generally, not about much.  Crap.  And that was completely fine (for example they’d established, after intense debate, that Cool Ranch was hands-down the best flavour of Doritos –and _Dean_ had argued that one into the ground).  Or Dean would invite Sam to go encyclopedia on him and lay back, arms behind his head, listening to Sam riff on whatever information he’d been inhaling lately (Sam had recently spent an hour explaining to Dean –lying with him in bed, his head pillowed on Dean’s stomach- why people were so fascinated with cell phones, like they were starting to be this whole new thing, this whole new _medium_ , quoting some guy named McLuhan).  Dean had listened, amused (as far as he was concerned, a phone was a phone was a phone, and the best thing about a cell phone was Sammy carrying one around so Dean could call him).  But anyway, Dean enjoyed these tours of Sam’s brain for the most part.  He’d listen, grunting every once in awhile to let Sam know he was paying attention, and occasionally throwing in a comment, more to keep Sam going then out of any burning intellectual investment.  Listening to encyclopedia Sam always ended up with Dean either snoozing peacefully, dropping off to the sound of Sam’s voice, or getting wickedly turned on (Dean enjoyed those porno films of nerd chicks who’d drop their glasses and then their panties, and Sam going on like he did definitely qualified him as one hot nerd chick).  He’d turn to Sam and start kissing him, Sam still talking until he figured out that Dean’s attention had definitely moved on.

But sometimes they’d talk about other things.  Important, tough things.  Things that could have easily ended in a wicked fight (and they were trying hard, these days, not to go there).

But that was…Dean had decided he’d deal with that.  He’d decided he _would_ talk about those things, although these conversations could get pretty nervewracking.  He wanted Sam to be happy, so _that_ meant trying to understand where his brother was coming from, even if Dean didn’t necessarily agree with him.

And Dean wanted Sam to understand him too, of course.

They were finished with sex and lying sprawled in bed, Dean stroking Sam’s hair.  Sam’s eyes were open, gazing up at the ceiling.

“…What you thinkin?”  Dean murmuring.

“Mmmm.” Sam’s answering murmur.

Dean, gently tugging on a lock of hair.  “Tell me.”

Sam yawned.  He shifted around, flinging one leg over Dean (which landed firmly on Dean’s junk - _thanks_ Sammy, that felt great).  Then he angled his head towards Dean, laying a hand cozily on Dean’s chest.  “Rub my head more first.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Fine.”  He dug his hand into Sam’s scalp, Sam’s thick, silky hair a cool weight between his fingers.

Sam sighed with pleasure.

Dean rubbing.  Sam purring.

 “…So what you thinkin?” Dean said, finally.

Sam was smiling absently.  “Thoughts.”

Dean pulled on his hair again, not so gently this time.  “I got that.”

Sam flicked his eyes towards him.

Dean looked back. 

Sam sighed.  “I was thinkin…about the school dance.  You know -on Hallowe’en.”  He wasn’t smiling now.

Dean’s hand stilled.  “What about it?”

Sam glanced at him again, quickly.  “Nothin bad.  Just…when I was there…before you got there I mean…I was thinkin how great it would be to slow dance with you.  But that we couldn’t.   I mean, like ever.  Right?  Like we could dance with everyone else except each other.  And that made me sad.”

Dean smiled.  He started stroking Sam’s hair again.  “I know what you mean.  I’d feel the same way Sammy, when I’d go to those things…and you weren’t there.  I wanted you there so bad…holding you, makin out with you on the dance floor…and knowin it would never happen.”

Sam was quiet.  Dean continued to stroke him, gently.

“Maybe…” Sam hesitated.

“…Yeah?” Dean asked.

“Maybe we _can_ …do stuff together like that,” Sam said.  “Eventually.  When I get older, I mean.  And if we’re in a place where nobody knows we’re brothers.  I mean, we don’t really look like each other.  Right?  You look like Mom and I look like…Dad, unfortunately.  So nobody would know, if we didn’t tell them.”

Dean considered this.  Said, “You mean like we’re just a couple of gay dudes?  Not related?”

“Well…yeah.”

“And we’d just go…slow dancin,” Dean said.

“Sure.  And other things too.  Like holdin hands when we’re walkin around…in the _daytime._   And kissin each other hello and goodbye.  And other stuff like that.  Couple stuff.  You know?”

Dean sighed.  “I dunno Sammy.  For one thing, in case you didn’t notice, gay guys don’t exactly do public displays of affection.  Not in middle America they don’t.  We’d have to be livin in San Francisco to do that and not take the risk of bein jumped.  Or Manhattan.”

Sam set his jaw.  “So we’ll live there then,” he said. 

“I don’t want to live there,” Dean said.  “I’m not a city boy, Sammy.  I like open spaces.  Green.”

Sam looked down.  “We’ve never tried it Dean, not really.  How do you know you won’t like livin in the city…like that…until you really _try_ it?”

Dean sighed again.  Sammy, looking sad.  Dean hated that.  “You seriously want to move to San Fran _cisco?”_ he asked, helplessly. 

Sam looked up, smiled at him.  “If it meant I could walk down the street with you, holdin hands…yes I would,” he said.  He stopped smiling, looked away again.  “To do somethin like that…with you…”  He paused.  Then added, softly, “I’d move anywhere, for that.”

Dean didn’t answer.  He couldn’t, not immediately.

_(Sammy.  Saying that to him)_

He’d move anywhere too, if it meant Sammy saying awesome things to him like that.  Even San Francisco.

“And anyway,” Sam continued, “people’d have to be nuts to jump us.  We’d _destroy_ them.  You’re not really worried about _that,_ are you?”

Dean grinned.  “Nah – guess not.  Not from civilians, that is.”  But as he said that, something occurred to him.  Something Sam needed to understand.  He looked at Sam, serious now.  “Other hunters, maybe.”

Sam frowned.  “What?” he asked. “Why?  Hunters don’t care if someone’s gay.”

“No,” Dean said.  “They don’t.  But they’d care about the…other thing, Sammy.  _Hunters_ know we’re brothers.  Everyone knows John’s kids.  We couldn’t just…stop bein brothers Sammy, not bein in the life like we are.  We couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Sam asked him.  “Why would anyone care about that, except Dad?”

“Oh they’d care, alright,” Dean said grimly.  “Trust me.  They might even kill us for it.”

Sam looked at him.  “You can’t be serious,” he said, after a moment.

Dean didn’t answer.

“Why’d they do _that?”_ Sam asked him.  “Dean?”

“Because what we’re doin…” Dean said.  “It’s against the…natural order of things, Sammy.  You must know that, with all your readin.  And that’s what hunters are about.  Protectin the natural order.”

“Hunters are about _hunting,”_ Sam said.  “Goin after the supernatural.  Monsters.  We’re not monsters, Dean.”

“No,” Dean said.  “But in some ways, we’d be considered worse.  More dangerous to other hunters than monsters, even.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“We’ve let the supernatural in,” Dean said.

He felt cold suddenly, saying that.  A chill, entering the room.

Sam stared.

“When you do things…outside the laws of nature…you open yourself, Sammy,” Dean explained.  “It’s like you tear open a protective membrane of some kind.  And then you give off a scent.”

Sam was silent.  Staring.

“And that scent draws dark things,” Dean continued quietly.  “Lookin for an in.”

“Who told you that?” Sam asked him.  “Dad?”

“Yeah.”

Sam snorted.  “Figures.”

“He’s not always wrong, Sammy,” Dean said sharply.  “And about _this_ stuff, he’s genius.  You know that.”

“So what’s… _Dad’s_ …point then?” Sam asked.  “Why’re we so dangerous?”

“When a hunter disrespects the natural order,” Dean said, “does things that open them to the supernatural…the supernatural will find ways to use them.  Take them over, even.”

Sam was listening.

“And hunters who do that…openin themselves like that…they risk becoming the weapons _of_ the supernatural.  Not the other way around.”

He looked at Sam.  “Once a hunter turns, Sammy…they’re the deadliest threat out there.  Our worst nightmare.  An enemy who knows all our tricks.  An enemy on the inside.”

Sam was silent, staring at him.

“Hunters know this,” Dean continued.  “So if a hunter turns…and other hunters figure it out…they go after them.  They might try to stop them first, sure.  Sometimes you get there in time.  But if it doesn’t look like that’s gonna take…elimination’s not out of the question.  And once other hunters are concerned about someone that way…they’re never trusted again, anyhow.  Always a potential target.”

“Dad told you all this?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean answered.  “And Bobby.”

_“Bobby?”_

“Who do you think keep tabs on stuff like that?” Dean said.  “Bobby’s the leading dispatch for hunts on this _continent,_ Sammy _._   And some of those hunts aren’t for just monsters or ghosts.  Some of them are investigations.  On other hunters, who’ve come under suspicion.”  He was quiet.

“ -Of turning,” Sam finished for him.  His voice was neutral.

“Yeah.”

“And that means what, exactly?” 

Dean shrugged.  “Like doin witchcraft, for example.  Consortin with spirits.  Gettin too friendly with the monsters we’re supposed to be hunting.” He looked at Sam.  “Gettin too much like them.  That’s always a danger, in this line of work.   Gettin too close.  You _know_ that Sam, Dad’s talked about that with you ‘n’ me both.”

“I don’t think Dad had _incest_ in mind when he talked about that,” Sam said.

Dean winced.

Sam didn’t appear to notice.  “Well?” he continued.  “Did he?”

“No,” Dean replied shortly.  “But trust me, he’d include ince- …he’d put that on the list too.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Because it’s a…taboo,” Dean said.  “Just like doin witchcraft or makin deals with demons or conjurin up the dead.”  He was quiet. “Taboos exist for a reason,” he continued, eventually.  “And breakin them…turns you towards towards the supernatural.  Opens you to it.”

“You sound like Bobby,” Sam said.

Dean laughed.  “Actually it was Bobby who told me that,” he said.  “Breakin taboos…that’s what draws the dark things.”  Dean felt cold again suddenly, saying that.  He shivered.

Sam was looking at him.  “So…Bobby calls investigations into this stuff?  When a hunter is suspected of breakin a taboo?”

“Yeah.”

“Suspected of _turning,”_ Sam said, “towards the supernatural.”

“That’s right.”

“Investigations…like internal audits,” Sam said, thoughtfully.  Dean laughed again, surprised.  “Yeah, guess so.  That’s one way of puttin it.”

“You been on any of those?”  Sam asked him.  “With Dad?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He sighed.  “I have.”

“You never told me about that,” Sam said.

“I didn’t want to,” Dean said.  “I wanted to forget about it.”

“Why?” Sam asked.  “What was it like?”

“It sucked,” Dean said.  “Goin after one of your own…that sucks Sammy, no two ways about it.”

“How’d Dad deal with it?”

“He hated it too,” Dean said.  “He hates those kinds of hunts.  But he does them.  He’s the best investigator out there.  Bobby knows it, everyone knows it.  Somethin tricky like that…Bobby’ll put Dad on it.  Dad’s opinion carries a lot of weight.  Everyone respects John.  They know he c’n make the tough decisions.”

“Judge and jury,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“And executioner too,” Sam added. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “When he has to be.”

Sam was quiet.  Dean could see him thinking about this, that Sammy brain working.  “So is _that_ what we’ve done, Dean?” Sam asked him.  “You ‘n’ me?  Turned towards the supernatural?”

“That’s what Dad would say,” Dean said.  “If he knew.  And Bobby.”

“Opened ourselves to it,” Sam said.  “Like puttin up a sign.  Open for business.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s about right.”

“Because we’ve broken a taboo,” Sam continued.

Dean sighed.  “That’s right.”

“Incest,” Sam said.

Dean was silent.

“And other hunters…they’d think that too?” Sam asked, after a moment.

“Yes,” Dean replied.  “Definitely.”

“Bobby too?”

“’Fraid so.”

“And would _they_ go after us?” Sam asked.  He sounded very young, now.  “Dean?  Would _Dad?_   Would we be in danger from _Dad?_   Or Bobby? _”_

Dean paused, a bit shocked by Sam’s question.  Then shook his head.  “Dad wouldn’t go after us, not like that.  Not to _kill us,_ Sam,” he said.  “Or Bobby either.  _Never_ think that.  But they’d for sure want to beat our asses.  Separate us, take you away from me.  For our own protection.”

“Against what?”

“Against the supernatural…anythin they’re afraid might’ve already started workin on us.  And against other hunters too.  And that would really be bad, Sammy,” Dean said to him.  “Dad ‘n’ Bobby havin to protect us against their own kind.  That’d be a shitty position to put them in.”

Sam was quiet.  But then he said, “We c’n stand up for ourselves, we don’t need their help.  And I’d _never_ let Dad take me away from you.”  He didn’t seem too worried about Dad or Bobby otherwise, Dean noticed.

“I _know_ that,” Dean said to him.  “And I’d never let Dad do that either, you know that too.  But just think.  If people got to know what we were doin…I mean people in the life, forget the civilians…Dad would never hear the end of it.  Just because he’s respected doesn’t mean he’s liked.  He’s rubbed a few hunters the wrong way, over the years.”

Sam snorted again.  Dean smiled.

“Dad has his share of haters, out there,” he continued.  “If they found out his own sons were doin somethin so against the hunters’ code…right under his nose…he’d never live that down.”

Sam nodded.  “Uh huh.  Dad has his pride.”

“It’s not just pride, Sam,” Dean said.  “You think Dad could hunt like he does with _that_ hangin over his head?  Somethin like that…from his own sons…people’d ask what the fuck was wrong with him he’d allowed that to happen.  They’d wonder whether _he’d_ been turned.  He’d be suspect on every judgement call he’s ever made.”  He met Sam’s eyes.  “It would _damage_ him, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Damage his ability to do the work he’s devoted his life to.  Damage his ability to go after the thing that killed Mom.”

Sam was quiet.

“Dad would never try to kill us,” Dean said, eventually.  “He’d protect us, if someone tried to go after us.  You gotta believe that.  But he’d never forgive us.”

Sam stared at him, silently.

“We can’t do that to him,” Dean said.  “Don’t you see?  I couldn’t live with myself, Sammy, if that happened to him, because of us.  So we gotta keep what we’re doin a secret.  From everyone.  Forever.”

 _“…Forever?”_ Sam asked.  His voice was incredulous.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t want to,” Sam said.  He looked stubborn, now.

“I know,” Dean said.  “But you gotta trust me on this.  Please Sammy.  It’s important.”

“Keepin what we’re doin secret…like that…means you’re… _we’re_ …choosin to put Dad and his crazy crusade over us,” Sam said.  “Over you ‘n’ me.  Forever.”

“We still have you ‘n’ me,” Dean said.  “And keepin it a secret isn’t a such bad thing either, Sammy, c’mon.  You think I want to see you exposed to danger from other hunters?  Doesn’t matter whether we c’n handle it.  It’s unnecessary risk.  I don’t want that for you.”

“So let’s just _quit_ then,” Sam said.  “Disappear.  Get out of the life.  Get off the hunters’ radar.  We could make it like we’re dead, even.”

“Disappear on Dad too?” Dean asked him.  “Have _him_ think we’re dead?”

Sam was silent.

“I can’t do that to him, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Don’t ask that of me.”

“Maybe Dad would just let us go our own way,” Sam said.  “If we asked him to.”

Dean laughed.  “You really think he’d do that?”

Sam looked at him. 

“Think about that again,” Dean said.

Sam stared.  Then sighed.  “He’d say we’d been turned already.  Possessed, maybe.  He’d try to save us.”

“Yahtzee,” Dean said.  “And you c’n bet that him savin us would mean him doin everythin he could to separate us.  By whatever means necessary.  Hidin you from me.  Warded lockdowns.”

Sam was silent.  He looked distressed.  Dean felt sad, seeing that.  It wasn’t fair, he got that.  It was hard.  And he wanted so much for Sam to be…okay with what they had.  Accepting, in spite of everything.

I mean, what choice did they have, really?

_(Because you don’t get to leave the life.  That’s not how it works)_

Dad and Bobby had been pretty clear with Dean, about that.

 _Sam_ didn’t understand this, Dean knew.  He thought hunting was _optional._   A lifestyle choice.  And Dean was reluctant to argue with him yet again about this (he’d had enough of Sam being mad at him, thank you very much).

But regardless of what Sam thought, it didn’t change anything.

Hunters didn’t choose to be hunters.  They didn’t join up.  They weren’t recruited.  And although the life could be seductive, it didn’t start off by seducing you, although you talk to a hunter about their story they might say something like that.  But if you _really_ looked into their eyes, past the haze of booze and bullshit, you’d see that they were lying.  To you, to themselves, it didn’t matter.

Hunters were conscripted. 

And not by people.

_(The supernatural chooses you, Dean.  Think any different, you’re just foolin yourself)  _

And it didn’t have to make any sense.  It didn’t have to be fair.

_( Why is a stupid question, Dean.  Why is not goin to keep you alive.  The question you should be askin is how)_

Hunting not a choice. 

_(Your only choice, Dean, is how you end up.  How you go out and how many evil things you take with you on the way.  You don’t choose to hunt, no one does.  But you choose how.)_

And if that was hard, if that felt like too much sometimes, well…tough. 

_(You think I like this life?  You think it makes me happy?  You think I don’t feel like goin on, sometimes?)_

No, Dad, I hear you.  You’ve made yourself pretty clear.

But so what?

_(You start feeling hard-done-by, Dean, you start feelin like whinin…you remember this.  Survival, for a hunter, that’s a conscious choice. Day by day.  You’re goin up against forces that want you obliterated.  Owned or dead.  And you’ll feel it.)_

Thanks Dad.  Got it.

Survival.  A choice.  Day by day.  For his dad and all the rest of them.  Because hunters lived dark and close to the line.  Day by day by day.  For hunters, surviving one more day…that was an active choice.

But it wasn’t really that, for Dean.  That’s where his dad was wrong.

_(Dean, I have to go out for awhile, keep an eye on Sammy, okay?_

_Sure, Dad.)_

Survival never a choice.  Not for Dean.  He didn’t have the option to just check out.

And he didn’t want to, either.

Sam, smiling at him.

_(You’re my biiiig brother)_

This life…it wasn’t _just_ about survival.  Dean had dreams too.  Ambitions.  Sam not the only one.

Hunters lived dark, sure.  Their dad never pretended otherwise.  Bobby sure didn’t.  Or any of the other hunters Dean had met, over the years. 

But it didn’t all have to be dark.

_(Who loves you loves you loves you?)_

And this life was _theirs,_ his and Sam’s, something they could have together.  And it could be okay.  Dean would see to it.  And Sam would see he was right, eventually.

They could have a good life together, him and his brother.  They just had to be careful.

Dean glanced down at Sam, lying next to him.  Sam was still staring at the ceiling, but he didn’t look distressed anymore.  His expression was quiet now, remote.

Resigned.

Dean shivered, suddenly.

This life.  Theirs.

_(the supernatural chooses you)_

Maybe Sam did understand, after all.

Sam had turned his eyes towards him.  Dean watched him gravely.  Sam looked back.  He hadn’t spoken, not since Dean had dashed his hopes about them ever _(holding hands on the street)_ being open about themselves.  Dean watched him, sadness settling over him like mist. 

Sammy, disappointed.  Dean hated that.

But he’d heard him, Dean saw.  Accepted what he’d said.  Taken Dean at his word.

But accepting not the same as wanting.  _Saying_ okay not the same as…okay.

Sam’s eyes on him, quiet.  Dean gazed back.  He felt his own sadness on his face, clear for Sam to see.    Sam looked at him then looked away. 

Dean closed his eyes.

But then he felt Sam lay his head down on his chest, a warm, silky weight.  Sam nuzzled his cheek against Dean’s skin.  Dean was still for a moment.  Then began stroking Sam’s hair.  “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” Sam whispered back.

Dean smiled.

“Dean…” Sam paused.

“Yeah?”

“Do _you_ believe what Dad would say?  About us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think we’ve been turned?” Sam asked him.  “By the supernatural, I mean?  Do you think we’re bein used?”

“No,” Dean answered, definitely.

“How’re you so sure?” Sam asked.

“Because we’re still standin, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Do you think I’d allow that?  Let myself get turned?  Or you?”

Sam looked at him.

“I’d fight to the death,” Dean said.  “Before I’d allow that to happen.  To either of us.”

“You’d die, before you’d let somethin turn you?” Sam asked.  “Take you dark side?”

“Yeah.”

Sam considered this.  Then said,

“And me too right?  You’d see me die too, before that happened.”

Dean was silent.  Wordless.

“Dean?”

Dean felt his hands curve protectively around Sam’s head.  “Don’t say that Sammy, Jesus.  _That’s_ never gonna happen.  So don’t ever say that.  Don’t ever _think_ that.  I wouldn’t let anythin get close enough to you that it’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of turnin you.  So don’t say stuff like that ever again, okay?  Ever.”  Dean heard his own voice change as he said this, hardening.  He’d keep Sam safe, and that was that.  And that was the last word on _that_ subject, from anyone, including Sam. 

Ever.

But Sam kept talking (no surprise there).  “But you believe it,” he said.  “What they said.  Dad ‘n’ Bobby.”

“Believe what?” Dean asked him, patiently.

“Believe that…what we’re doin…is a draw.  A sign,” Sam added.  “For dark things.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Dean?”

Dean sighed.  “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean was silent.  Against the memory, flooding him.  His hands clenched unconsciously in Sam’s hair.

“Ouch!” 

“Sorry.”  Dean took a breath.  He relaxed his grip, deliberately.  “We never talked about that hunt,” he said.  “The one in New Hampshire.  That summer.  What I saw.”

“You mean the one where Dad used you as bait?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah.  That one.”

“No, we never did.”  Sam said.  “I asked, but you never wanted to.”

“Well, that’s why I know what we’re doin draws the spirits,” Dean answered.  “I saw somethin and…now I know.”

“What did you see?” Sam asked him.

Dean didn’t answer.  He stroked Sam’s hair, silently.

“Well?” Sam asked him.

“It’s not just what I saw,” Dean said.  He hesitated.  “It’s how.”

“You mean that…thing with Dad?  What _I_ saw?”

“No.”

“So tell me,” Sam said.

Dean took a breath.  “Okay…”

 ***

It was late evening, blue sky fading to black.  Sounds of the summer forest outside.  Inside, the cabin warm and dim.  Dean and Sammy drowsing on the bed.

Dean woke up to the rumble of the Impala, pulling up outside the cabin.  He heard another vehicle too.  Doors slamming.  Dad must have brought Maurice back with him, from his trip into town.

Dean glanced over at Sammy.  His brother was lying beside him, flat on his back, the book he’d been reading opened face down on his chest.  His eyes were closed. 

Dean gazed at Sammy for a moment, taking in the delicate profile, the fine skin, the tilt of Sammy’s nose.  He observed Sammy’s smooth silky brows, his long eyelashes laid like crescents against the soft skin of his cheeks.  His brother’s smooth mouth, the lips parted slightly, relaxed in sleep.  That silky dark hair, soft against the pillow.

_Baby brother. Sammy.  SamSam._

He’d just passed his thirteenth birthday last month.  Still such a kid.  But that slight, slender body, fitting against Dean so sweetly.

Dean felt a wave of incredibly strong feeling wash over him.

 _Sammy._   What they’d been doing earlier.  Sammy’s mouth on him.

Jesus.

But Dean couldn’t think about any of that right now.  Their dad would be in the cabin any second. 

Dean sat up.  And gasped, pain flooding through him.

His _ass._   That beating he’d taken.  His dad’s belt, taking the skin right off him.  Dean slipped a hand back under his sweats, feeling himself carefully, the raised, tender welts, and then a sudden hit of sharp, raw pain.  He withdrew his hand and peered at his fingers.  Still blood.  His dad had broken the skin pretty bad.  That had happened only twice before and Dean had figured it was an accident both times, his dad well into the Dewars.  But _this_ time…his dad had been stone cold sober.  And taking the skin off him, literally.  Dean glanced up.  Sammy was looking at him.

“You okay?” Sammy asked.

Dean smiled at him, trying to make it look natural.  “Yeah.”  He put his feet on the floor, careful not to wince.

The cabin door, opening.  Then steps, pausing outside their room.  “Dean?”  Their dad’s voice.  “You in there?”

Sammy sprang up off the bed.  He was crouched over his duffel, hunting for a shirt.  The door to the bedroom opened.

“Dean?”  Their dad, a dark shape in the doorway.

“Yeah, Dad?” Dean said.  He kept his voice neutral.

Their dad’s eyes flicked over Sammy then focused on Dean, assessing. 

“Maurice and his sister are here,” he said.  “Get up, son.  I want you to meet them.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “Just gimme a moment.”

Their dad nodded.  His eyes moved to Sammy again.  “You too,” he said to Sammy briefly.  “Once you’re not half naked.”  Sammy scowled at him.  Their dad stared back coldly then left, closing the door behind him.

The two brothers looked at each other.  Dean sat motionless on the bed, collecting himself.  His ass was throbbing painfully, the effect of the ice that Sammy had put on him earlier long worn off.  Just the thought of getting up and moving about made him cringe and then meeting these strangers…they’d see the way he was walking.  Dean’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment.

“You don’t have to,” Sammy said to him.  “I’ll just go out ‘n’ tell them you’re not feelin well.”

“No,” Dean said.  “They’re here for the hunt.  We were supposed to be here _today,_ remember?  June 21st.  Dad said there was somethin important about this date.  Somethin so important he drove cross country to get here.

“Summer Solstice,” Sammy said.

Dean looked at him.

Sammy shrugged.  “Well that’s what it is,” he said.  “Longest day of the year.  Wiccans call it Litha.  A crowd of them are probably camped out at Stonehenge, chantin ‘n’ holdin up crystals.”  He looked at Dean.  “Veil’s thin, during the Solstice,” he said.  “Spirits come close.”

Dean stared.  “Where’d you get _that?”_ he asked.

Sammy grinned.  “Books.  Bobby’s.”

Dean shook his head.  “That’s what you’ve been doin these last two months?  Goin through Bobby’s books?”

“Yup,” Sammy shrugged.  “Nothin else to do, with you bein gone.  Other th’n trainin with _Dad.”_  

“Heard that went okay,” Dean said.

Sammy shrugged again.  “I guess.  Whatever.  You ready to get up now?”

“Yeah.”  Dean rose to his feet, carefully.  He kept his face still.

_Ouch.  Fuck._

“You okay?” Sammy asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Let’s get this over with.”

Sammy nodded, pulling a tshirt over his head.  His hair flopped over his eyes.  He pushed it back, absently.

Dean, looking at this.  “Stay here,” he said abruptly. 

“What?  Why?”

“Because I don’t want you meetin those people.  Not right now.”

“But Dad said- “

“I don’t care.  You just stay here, Sammy.”

Sammy stared at him. 

Dean stared back.  He had a bad feeling suddenly.  He didn’t want Sammy under the eyes of these strangers.  Not after what had just happened, today.

Sammy and him in the same room together, under two sets of fresh, curious eyes. 

No. 

“You stay here,” Dean said to his brother again.

Sammy stared.  He looked like he was about to argue.  Dean tensed.  But then Sammy smiled.  “Okay, Dean,” he said softly.  “Whatever you say.” 

Dean felt something loosen in his chest.  _Sammy._ He suddenly wanted his brother up next to him again, up close against his skin.  Wanted to cross the room, grab Sammy and put him on the bed.  And then for Sammy and him to lose themselves in each other again.

Sammy gazing up at him, those eyes.  Dean was achingly hard now, in spite of everything. 

But their dad, waiting outside.  The strangers.  The hunt.

“Shit,” Dean muttered.

Sammy, smiling.  No actually _grinning,_ now.

“You okay Dean?”

“Shut up, you little brat.”

“Sure,” Sammy replied sweetly.  “Okay.  I’ll just wait here for you then.  Just like you told me to.”

Dean closed his eyes.  Sammy, waiting for him obediently.

_(Just like you told me to)_

Another wave washing through him, hot this time.

 _No._   Dean shifted himself deliberately, a blast of pain following.  He winced. 

“Dean?”

Dean opened his eyes.  Sammy staring at him, looking worried now.

“I’m okay, Sammy,” Dean said, with an effort.  “You just stay here.”  He turned and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

His hard faced, broad shouldered dad, looming in the centre of the room.  Two people behind him, a man and a woman, both tall and slim, standing with the easy grace of athletes.  Mid thirties, dark eyes and hair.  Dean sized them up quickly.  Brother and sister, you could see the resemblance.  And not all the way white, some native American in them probably.  The woman long legged in boots and jeans, her long hair hanging down her back, pretty hot stuff for her age.  The man in the uniform of a county deputy, a Glock holstered at his hip.  He was holding a tan file folder in one hand,

Dean walked slowly over.

His dad nodded at him.  “Dean, this is Maurice and his sister Manon.  Guys, this is my son, Dean.”  Dean smiled, held out his hand to Manon.

She took it, her eyes wide.  “My _god,_ John,” she said. 

“He takes after his mother,” Dean’s dad said briefly.

“Well he sure doesn’t look like _you,_ you ugly son of a bitch,” Maurice said cheerfully.  He held out his hand to Dean.  “Nice to meet you, Dean.”

Dean released Manon’s hand (she let go reluctantly), and shook Maurice’s.  “Nice to meet you too,” he said.

“Where’s Sam?” his dad asked him.

“He’s not feelin well,” Dean said.  “He asked if he could meet everyone later.”

His dad rolled his eyes.  “Fine,” he said.  “Just as well, I guess.  I was goin to send him off to bed anyway, after he said hello to our host, here.  Conversation doesn’t concern him.”

 _Sammy, in bed._   Dean swallowed.  “It’s bit early for his bedtime,” he said. 

His dad had lost interest.  “Whatever,” he said.  “Let’s sit down.  We’ve got things to talk about.”

The four of them moved to the table.  Dean sat down carefully, his raw butt painful against the hard wooden chair.

 _Fuck._   Dean clenched his teeth, trying _really_ hard not to wince.

Manon’s eyes on him.  “You alright Dean?” she asked.

Dean nodded.  It was a moment before he could speak.  “Yeah,” he said.

“He’s fine,” his dad said dismissively.  “Now fill him in, Maurice, on what you were sayin, earlier.”            

Maurice nodded.  He retrieved several sheets of glossy paper from the file folder and laid them out on the table.  Crime scene photos.  The vics.

Dean stared at the photos, riveted.  “As you can see,” Maurice said, “the three victims were mutilated.  Eyes removed first.  They were still alive when that was done.  What killed them was the removal of their livers.” 

“Their eyes look like they were… _clawed_ out,” Dean said.  “Those are claw marks.”

Maurice nodded.  “That’s right.”

“What kind of creature would do _that?”_ Dean said.  He examined the photos carefully.  The vics’ eyes were gouged out precisely, carefully, but clearly not with a weapon.  It looked someone had taken their fingers and dug those eyes out of their sockets.  Fingers tipped with long sharp claws.

“A werecat,” his dad said. 

Dean looked at him.

His dad shrugged.  “We know what it was,” he said.  “The kids all saw it before they died.  We have proof.  Written records.  Friends they told.”

“When did they see it?” Dean asked him.

“Shortly before it came back for them,” his dad said.  He met Dean’s eyes.  “The night of June 21st.”

Dean looked at him.  Then back at the photos.  “They didn’t fight it,” he said.  “There’re no signs of a struggle.”

“No,” his dad said, quietly.

“We think the kids followed it,” Maurice said.  “The werecat came for them and lured them off into the woods.  They followed it for miles.  Until it turned on them.  Butchered them, as you can see.”

“How do you know that’s what they were following _?”_ Dean asked.

“We saw its tracks,” Maurice said.  “Paw prints of a large cat.  We’ve got the deaths listed as animal attacks.  Weird ones, but…” he shrugged.

Dean nodded.  “Those kids all disappeared from the same place,” he said.  He glanced at his dad.  “That lookout point you told me about.  You think they went there on purpose?  To meet it?”

“Yes,” his dad said.  “They all went to the lookout point on purpose.  One of the girls even mentioned it, why she was going there, in her diary.  The one that died last year.”

“When did you read her diary?” Dean asked him.

“Today,” his dad said.  “Maurice and I went to the girl’s home, her mother let us have a look at her things.”

“So…they all went there to be killed?” Dean asked.

“No,” Manon said.  “They went there to help.  They weren’t thinking about dying.”  Dean looked at her.  “They went there to meet the spirit,” Manon explained.  “To help it break through the veil.”

“Did they know they were going to _die?”_ Dean asked her.

“At the point they did, it probably didn’t matter,” Manon said.  She shrugged. “They were enthralled.” 

Dean looked at her.  “You know what the spirit is,” he said. 

“Yes,” Manon answered.  “It’s tried to come through, before.  The legend of the werecat goes back centuries, here.”

“But this is the first time since the origin story that the spirit’s gotten this close,” his dad said.  “Fourth death, that’s what it takes, accordin to the lore.  Last number in the combination lock.”

“Why now?” Dean asked.  “How’d it manage to get so close this time?”

“The pattern wasn’t recognized this time around,” Maurice said.  He looked sad.  “It’s been two hundred years since the spirit tried to come.  Last time the werecat appeared in these parts, people knew the lore.  Community kept itself safe.  _This_ time those kids dealt with it alone.  Didn’t take it seriously, treated it like some game, until they were too deep in.”

He was quiet.

“And I didn’t see it,” he said, eventually.  “Or I saw it, but not really.  Didn’t believe it, just one of those local tales I’d ignored for my entire life.  It was Manon who convinced me, finally.  Convinced me to bring a hunter in…that’s how your dad got involved.”  He looked down.  “I could have done more,” Maurice said.  “I could have at least saved that last girl, last year.”  He was quiet again, his sister gazing at him.  “I’ll never forgive myself,” Maurice said.

Dean observed the three adults, sitting somberly around the table.  He understood what Maurice was saying.  It was hard, this special knowledge.  Of what was really out there, too fantastic to be believed.   And to act on it or not to act, always a question, sometimes an agonizing one.  Until that moment you _finally_ believed.  Became a hunter.  He’d heard that story before.

“So what do you need me to do?” he asked.

Their eyes turned to him.  His dad nodded approvingly.  “We need you to ensure you’re selected,” he said.  “We need the werecat to come for you.”

“So how do I do _that,_ exactly?” Dean said.  “Hold up a sign sayin ‘Pick Me’?”

“In a sense, yes,” Manon said.

Dean looked at her.

“The victims weren’t random,” Manon explained.  “There was a reason the werecat appeared to them.”

“Which was what?” Dean asked her.

“They were vulnerable,” Manon replied softly.  “Something happened to them, on the night of selection, this night, in fact, the Solstice night, that made them vulnerable. Open, to the supernatural.”

Dean stared at her, wary now.  “What happened to them?” he asked.

“Tragedy,” Manon said.  She didn’t say anything more.

Dean frowned.  He glanced over at his dad for an explanation.  But his dad was gazing at Manon thoughtfully.  He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“You’ve gotta give me more than that,” Dean said to Manon.

She looked at him.  Then smiled.  “You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen,” she said to him.  “A face like an angel.  When John spoke of you, he didn’t come close to describing it, the way you look.I can’t get over it. _”_

“Well try,” Dean replied shortly.  He felt himself blushing and was furious, suddenly.  His _face._   Jesus.  People were so shallow.

“Don’t worry, Dean’s smarter than he looks,” his dad said.

Dean glared at him.  “Dad!”

“And that face comes in handy,” his dad continued.  “It disarms people.”

“And attracts them,” Manon said.  “You’ve used him as bait before, John?”

His dad shrugged.  “Yeah.  Dean’s talented that way.  And not just on people.  He’s drawn out a monster or two.  They come out of the woodwork for him.  Works like a charm.”

“Quite an advantage,” Maurice said. 

Dean’s dad laughed.  “Yeah.”  He gazed at Dean fondly.  “Dean’s an asset, alright.”

Dean looked away.  He fought the urge to duck his head.  This was high praise, coming from his dad.  But he felt uncomfortable, and guilty somehow, that he wasn’t more pleased.

_Asset._

“You haven’t answered my question,” Dean said to Manon.  “Tragedy, like how?”

“How do _you_ understand tragedy?” Manon asked him.

Dean was annoyed.  “I dunno!” he said.  “Tragedy, like somethin _bad_ happening.  Did something _bad_ happen to those kids?  Is something bad gonna happen to _me?_ ”

Manon looked at him.  Then said, “People have natural defenses.  Psychic protection, if you will, against misfortune.   A layer between them and what comes at them in life, like a psychic skin.”

“…Yeah,” Dean said.  “So?”

“Tragedy is something that pierces that skin,” Manon said.  “Gets under it, opens a wound.  Tragedy happens when you have no defence against something.”  She paused, her eyes on Dean.  “It could be something unexpected,” she said.  “A shock.  Or maybe something you _can’t_ defend against, even if you see it coming.  Something against which you are helpless.”

Dean stared at her, silent.

“And what happens, after tragedy?” Manon asked him softly. 

“I don’t know,” Dean said, eventually.

Manon smiled at him.  “Really?  Well I’ll explain.  You are vulnerable at that point.  Raw.  Your defenses are down and you are angry, afraid, in pain.  That psychic skin protecting you from the world is stripped away and you see things differently because of that, see _yourself_ differently.  And that seeing…it can be very painful.  Experienced like a wound.  And your energy at such a moment, unshielded, unprotected, it’s...interesting to those of the spirit world.  Attracts them.”

“So that’s your plan?” Dean asked her.  His eyes flicked to his dad.  “You gonna do something _tragic_ to me?  Hope I’ll be traumatized enough to be _interesting?”_

Manon smiled at him.  “No,” she said.  “That’s not necessary.  The _tragedy_ is not the point.  It’s just how, in the absence of other, more sophisticated methods, you could possibly open someone.  Unshield them.  There are better ways to accomplish this.”

“Like how?” Dean asked her.

“I’m going to trance you,” Manon said.  Dean blanched.  “If you let me,” Manon added.

“Are you a _witch?”_ Dean asked her.  He glanced at his dad again.  What was his dad _thinking?_

“No,” Manon said.  “A witch meddles with the supernatural for personal gain.  Selfishly and short-sightedly.  What we’re doing is for the greater good.”

“She’s a priestess, son,” his dad said to him.  “There’s a difference.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said, sceptically.  “And how’re you so certain this’ll work?  _Tragedy’s_ not so rare.  There must be plenty of people around here right now, havin somethin so bad happen to them they can’t handle it.  Why would the spirit pick me?”

“You’re the right age, it’s the right time, the right place,” Manon said.  “And you’re…beautiful, Dean.  You’re what the spirit wants.  Those other children were noticeably lovely but you…what are the odds of another boy with looks even _close_ to yours being here, on the hunting grounds of the spirit, on this very night, and suffering the circumstances that would…make him interesting?”

Dean ignored her comment about his looks.  “Yeah, about that,” he said.  “What were the odds of those _other_ three kids suffering somethin like that, on the same night?”  Manon didn’t answer.  “That doesn’t feel like odds, that feels like a set up,” Dean continued.  “Or _fate,_ or somethin.  How do you know there isn’t some other kid out there already, just waiting and primed?  How’re you so sure I c’n just step in?”

“Maybe you’re not stepping in,” Manon said.  “Maybe you’re meant to be here.”

Dean looked at her. 

“Fate,” Manon said.  She smiled at him.

The bad feeling was back.  Dean looked over at his dad.  “I don’t know about this,” he said.

“Hear her out, son,” his dad said. “Remember, we have the chance to do some good here.”

“You’re right, Dean,” Manon said.  “There _is_ another boy out there right now, about to suffer deeply.  Because fate runs its own course.  And if you choose to do nothing, that event will occur.  That innocent boy will be opened for use by the spirit, traumatized, defenceless, alone.  Claimed by its servant, the werecat.  And in a few weeks’ time, odds are…the spirit will have what it needs.  To wound the skin of this world, pierce the veil and come through.  As it has desired to do, for millennia.”

“And then what?” Dean asked her.

Manon’s face changed.  “And then…truly bad things will happen,” she said quietly.  “This is not the right time for this spirit, even though it is impatient.  Things aren’t ready.”

Dean was watching her closely.  He saw something flicker in her eyes, something dark and cold.

“Who _are_ you?” Dean asked her.

Manon shrugged.  “I’m a priestess, like your dad said.”

“Priestess…that means you serve something,” Dean said.  “Serve a god.  Who is it?”

Manon smiled at him.  “You _are_ smart, aren’t you Dean?  Not just a pretty face.  Your dad was right about that.”

“You’re not answering my question,” Dean said.

Manon smiled.  “I serve the balance,” she said. 

His dad stood up suddenly.  “Time’s passing,” he said.  “Dean, if we’re gonna do this, we’ve gotta act.   You’ve gotta let Manon trance you, unshield you.  If you see the werecat, we’ll know it worked.  The spirit’ll be comin for you, next dark of the moon.  And our trap will be set.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Dean asked.  “What if I don’t see anythin?”

“Then we go to Plan B,” his dad said.  He paused.  “Once we figure out what that is.”

Dean considered this.  Those three dead kids, that other boy, out there somewhere.  Plan B.  He thought of Sammy, suddenly, behind the closed door of the bedroom.  Looked at his dad.  “Okay,” Dean said.  “Let’s do it then.”

His dad nodded.  “I’m trusting you,” Dean said to him.

His dad met his eyes.  “I know son,” he said.  “You’ll be okay, I promise.”  He sat back down at the table.  Looked at Manon.  After a moment, so did Dean.

She’d propped her elbows on the table, the fingertips of both hands pressed together.  Dangling between them was a small crystal pendulum, suspended from a silver chain.  Dean laughed.  Remembering Sammy, smiling at him.

The others were staring.

“Just thinking about somethin I heard somewhere,” Dean explained.  “’Bout people messin around with crystals on the Solstice.”

“Popular time of year for them,” Manon agreed.  “Now I need you to look at the pendulum, Dean.  It’s going to start circling clockwise.  Don’t try to follow its path too closely.  Let your gaze relax.”

Dean stared at the crystal.  It hung motionless between Manon’s fingers.  “It’s not movin,” he said.

“It will,” Manon said.  “Just relax.  Relax your gaze.  Your gaze.  Dean.  That’s it,” she said softly.

Dean blinked.  The pendulum had started circling in front of him, slowly at first then faster and faster, spinning now, a blur on a chain.  “What now?” he heard his dad ask.  His voice sounded far away.

“Now I open him,” Manon said.  Her voice sounded distant too, separate somehow, like she was speaking from behind a pane of glass.  “The trance will open his psychic defenses.  Like peeling off the layers of an onion.  Ultimately unshielding him.”

“That won’t hurt him, will it?” his dad asked.

“No” Manon said.  “Think of it like an operation, not an injury.”

“Be careful,” his dad said.

“I will, John,” Manon said.  “I know he’s your son.”

Dean barely registered this.  The crystal, spinning, spinning.  His ears picked out a low, rhythmic thudding overlaid by a soft whishing sound.  “What’s that?” he said thickly.  “What’s that sound?”

“That’s the sound of your heart,” Manon said.  “Your blood in your veins.  Don’t let it distract you.  Just look at the crystal.”

The crystal, spinning, spinning.  Spinning clockwise, around the clock, the cycle of day, the days of the earth, turning.  Earth, turning, circling the yellow sun, spinning spinning through cycles of years, yellow sun turning, spinning, circling on its long path through the galaxy.   And now galaxy, Milky Way, vast whirlpool of stars a dot against the blackness of space, a tiny dot among millions of others, all spinning, spinning, circling, turning, millions, billions, trillions of stars, circling in an endless whirpool dance, spinning out through the void from the first point, fixety, the start of eternity.

Dean was dizzy.  The sound of his heart was fainter now, almost non-existent.  But the crystal, hanging motionless between the woman’s fingers.  Dean stared at it, his head whirling, his body still as stone.

“It’s stopped movin,” his dad said.

“That’s because he’s ready,” Manon said.  “Almost open.  He’s at the fulcrum.  The tipping point.”

“When will you know it’s working?” his dad asked. 

“When the pendulum starts to circle in the other direction,” Manon said.  “That’s the sign.  Of his life energy unshielded, open to the universe.”  Dean heard her voice, the husk of satisfaction in it. 

_(I serve the balance)_

“Dad,” Dean whispered.  His lips were stiff, the words barely formed.  “Stop.”

His dad didn’t hear him.  “I don’t see it movin,” he said to Manon.

“No,” she said.  She sounded less pleased now.  “It’s not.  Be quiet, John.  Let me concentrate.”

Dean’s eyes, fixed helplessly on the crystal.  The sound of his heart, an echo far away.  The galaxies, spinning.  “Dad,” Dean whispered.  But his lips, not moving.

“Somethin’s not workin,” his dad said.

“It’s stuck,” Manon said.  Her voice was tight.  “Your son’s natural defenses are very strong.  His will is tranced, but there’s still something there, holding everything in.  You’ve trained him too well, John.”

“What do we do?” his dad asked.

“We can’t leave him like this,” Manon said.  “This kind of trance is dangerous if it goes on too long.  People slip under.  I need to bring him out.”

“But the werecat,” his dad said.

“It won’t come,” Manon said.  “Not with Dean frozen like this.  His energy is still shielded.”

“No,” his dad said.  “There must be _somethin_ we can do.  We didn’t come all this way for nothin.”

“There is something,” Manon said, “but you won’t like it.”

“What is it?” his dad asked.

“He needs to be hurt,” Manon said.  “In a way he’s helpless against, like the others were.  That will tip him.”

Dean heard this, like the temperature dropping in the room.  His body, colder and colder.  The beat of his heart, very faint now.  He tried again.  “Dad.”

“You mean like what you said, earlier,” his dad said.  “About those other kids sufferin a tragedy.  Trauma.”

“Yes.”

“Dad,” Dean whispered.  But his lips didn’t move.  “No.”

“Will it be permanent?” his dad asked. 

“No,” Manon said.  “People recover from trauma.  And it doesn’t need to be devastating.  Not like what happened to the others.  Dean’s tranced, so he’s nearly there.  Shouldn’t take much, to open him the rest of the way.”

Frozen.  Spinning.  The dark cold of space.  His dad would never do this.  This would stop.  Dad.

“What do I do?” his dad asked.

“You know best,” Manon said.  “He’s your son.  But you need to act soon John, or I have to bring him out.  Make a decision.”

Dad.  Please.

His dad was on his feet, standing beside Dean’s chair.  Dean saw him out of the corner of his eye, the familiar, capable body of his dad, a hunting knife sheathed at his hip.  He tried to raise his head, to look up at his dad’s face, but he couldn’t.

Dad.  Help me. 

The cold, settling into his body.

“John,” Manon said.  “Your decision.  Now.”

His dad’s hand, landing strong on Dean’s shoulder, turning Dean to face him, breaking Dean’s line of sight to the crystal.  That terrible stuck feeling lifting suddenly, Dean’s body unlocking itself.  Relief, rising in Dean like warmth. 

Dad.  Thank god.

But then suddenly his dad’s hard hand, striking Dean across the face.

The sound of the blow loud in the silent room.

Dean cried out.

“The pendulum?” his dad’s rough voice.

“Still not moving,” Manon said.

But Dean could move again.  He looked up at his dad, shocked.  Put a hand to his stinging cheek.  “Dad,” he whispered.  Tears of pain, rising in his eyes. 

His dad staring down at him.  “How about now?” he asked Manon.

“No,” Manon said.

His dad, staring at him.  “Take your hand away,” he said.

“Dad,” Dean whispered.  “No.”

“Take your hand away, son,” his dad said quietly.  “This is the hunt.”

Dean’s cheek was throbbing.  He felt tears running down his cheeks, helpless to stop them.  He opened his mouth to say something.

_(Dad.  Just this morning.  We talked about this.)_

He looked up at the hard face of his father.

_(You stopped hitting me.  Remember?)_

The words didn’t come.

“Dean,” his dad said.  “The hunt.  It’s what we’re here for.  What you’re here for.  We gotta finish this.”

Dean stared at him.

“Lower your hand,” his dad said.

Dean lowered his hand.

His dad hit him again, on the same cheek, harder than before.  Dean’s head rocked back.  He didn’t cry out this time though.  He was ready for it.

“Well?” his dad asked Manon.

“Nothing,” she said.  “You’ve got one tough kid, John.”

“Don’t I know it,” his dad muttered.  Then he hit Dean again, on the other cheek this time.

Dean’s head was reeling.  But he made no move to protect himself.  He sat there, conscious of the throbbing pain in his face, his body, his father looming over him. 

_(What you’re here for)_

Nausea was taking him over.  He felt dizzy and sick, only partly out of the trance, wrenched out by violence and not yet back to himself.  The earth spinning, spinning.  He sat helplessly staring up, motionless, the black void, the stars.  His dad’s hard, frustrated eyes.

“Anything?” his dad asked Manon.

“No,” she said. 

His dad raised his hand.  Dean sat there, waiting.

And then a noise behind him.

 _“_ Dad, what the _fuck_ are you doin?  Stop it, _NOW!”_   Sammy’s voice.

His dad lowered his hand.  “Sammy!” he snapped.  “Get back in the other room!”

“No!”

And Sammy’s hands on Dean’s shoulders now, Sammy’s worried face in front of him.  “Dean, you okay?  Say somethin.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “Go back to the bedroom.”

Sammy’s eyes, filling with tears.  “No,” he said.  “We’re stoppin this.  C’mon, Dean, get up.  We’re gettin outa here.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Sammy. Go back.”

Sammy, crying.  “No Dean, c’mon- “ And now their dad’s hand on Sammy’s shoulder, Sammy whirling, snarling.  “Don’t _touch me,_ you bastard!”

“Stop interferin Sammy,” their dad’s cold voice.  “This is no place for you.”

 _“Fuck_ you!”

“Go back to the bedroom.”  Their dad’s voice, cold as ice.  “Or you’re the next one gettin it.”

“John,” Maurice’s voice.  Their dad turned on him, swiftly.  “These are _hunter’s_ kids, Maurice,” he said.  “Not your soft little garden variety brats.  And this is hunter’s business.  And trust me, I know my business.   So you decide.  You’re either a small town deputy or a hunter who c’n actually _do_ somethin.  And don’t forget, three _other_ kids are dead because you couldn’t make up your mind.”  Maurice was silent.

“You’re not hittin him again.”  Sammy’s low, furious voice.  He was standing in front of Dean now, glaring up at their dad.  “Dad.  You try, you’re goin through me.”

Their dad stared at him.  He didn’t answer.

“Sammy,“ Dean began, alarmed at something he saw in their dad’s eyes.  “don’t-“

But it was too late.  Their dad hit Sammy hard across the face, knocking him to the floor.

Dean was on his feet.  “Dad!” he yelled.  “Stop!”

Sammy was crying.  His face was bone white except for a dark red mark, rising on his cheek.  But his eyes were black with rage.  He picked himself up.  A knife was in his hand.

Dean was terrified now.  “Sammy!” he yelled.  “No!”

“I’m gonna kill you.”  Sammy’s voice was low and cold.  He started towards their dad, the knife ready. 

Dean saw his dad’s hand move instinctively towards his own weapon.  His dad, the trained killer and his brother the other one, their eyes on each other, black with intent.  No pretence now of anything but this dark, cold regard.

Dean felt a searing pain taking him over, overriding conscious thought.  Pain, dropping down on him like acid.  He understood now, what Manon meant.

The protective skin.

_(Things will be alright)_

_(For us)_

_(Because we’ve got each other, right?)_

It was gone.  Dean’s family flayed raw, in front of strangers.

Dean felt his chest heaving uncontrollably.  Crying, he was crying.  He grabbed Sammy around the waist before his brother could pounce on their deadly dad and wrestled him away.  Grabbed Sammy’s knife and threw it across the room.  “Sammy.  Fuckin _stop it.”_   His head was down, he was unable to look up, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.  His family, attacking each other like this, Jesus.  Dean was overcome with shame. 

_(You’ve got one tough kid, John)_

He buried his face in Sammy’s hair.

“Well?” his dad’s voice.

“No,” Manon said.  “Nothing yet.”

Dean ignored this.  Fuck her, fuck his dad.  And fuck him too, that he’d allowed this to happen to Sammy. 

_(His little brother, standing in front of him so protectively.  And then knocked to the floor.)_

Sammy turned to him, a flower opening.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “I’m not gonna let him hurt you.  I’m not I’m not.”  His arms around Dean, his face pressed against Dean’s throbbing face, Sammy’s soft skin.

“No,” Dean whispered.  “I know.  It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay.”  Rocking him, his nose in Sammy’s silky hair.  “Go back in the bedroom,” he whispered.  “I’ll be okay.”

“No,” Sammy whispered back.  “Don’t make me.”

“Go,” Dean said.  “I’m tellin you, Sammy.”

“No,” Sammy whispered.  “Dean please.”

Sammy in his arms, Sammy clasping him so tightly.  But the hunt.  What they’d come for.  Dean needed to get Sammy out of here, away from _(the hurting)_ what still had to be done here, for the hunt to continue.  He started to push Sammy away.

But then Sammy kissed him. 

He turned his face into Dean’s throat and kissed him, secretly.  Dean felt Sammy’s lips, a burning brand against his skin.

_(You’re mine/I’m yours)_

_(Dean)_

Sammy, kissing him like a promise _._  

_(I’m with you Dean, I’m stayin right here)_

Dean was shaking.

_Sammy._

his

“He’s open,” Manon said.

“What?” Their dad’s voice.

“The pendulum.”  Manon’s voice.  “Look at it.”

Dean didn’t raise his head.  Holding Sammy, Sammy’s body, Dean holding that small, tender body, Sammy’s lips against him.  Sammy Sammy Sammy.

“It’s spinnin counter-clockwise,” his dad said.

“Yes,” Manon said.  “He’s unshielded.”  Then added softly, “His energy…it’s out there now.”

Out there.  The stars, the dark.  Dean’s eyes, tightly closed against his brother’s warm head. 

“Is it working?” Their dad.  Dean heard him vaguely.  But Sammy, Sammy’s arms around him, Sammy kissing him, kissing Dean’s throat, secret kisses in front of these strangers, in front of their _dad,_ his face buried in Dean’s throat, those soft lips on Dean’s skin.  Sammy, holding him.

_Dean._

A voice.  Not in the room.  Dean’s eyes opened.  He raised his head.

“Yes,” Manon said.  Her eyes on Dean.  “I believe so.  He needs to go outside now.”

"I'll go with him," their dad said.

"No," Manon said.  "Dean has to meet it alone."

“Dean?”  Sammy’s voice.

“Shh,” Dean said.  “Be quiet Sammy.”  He was listening, carefully.

 “What?” Sammy asked him.  “Why?”

“Because I don’t want it to know you’re here.”

“What?”

_Dean._

“Sammy,” Dean whispered again.  “Shhh.”

_Dean._

“Dean?” Sammy’s worried voice.  “You’re scarin me.”

“Shhh,” Dean said.  “Sammy, please.”  He was back to himself now, alert with the cold mind of the hunter.  He stepped back from his brother, took Sammy’s shoulders lightly.  “I’m goin out,” he said to their dad.  “Make sure he doesn’t follow me.”  He pushed Sammy towards their dad.  “Stay put,” he said to him.  Turned to their dad.  “And don’t hit him again,” he said warningly.  “Dad.  You promised _I’m_ the one disciplinin him.  Remember?”

“Well you should _do_ it then,” their dad grumbled.  But he placed his own hands on Sammy’s shoulders, holding him firmly, but not in anger.  Just keeping him in place, like Dean had requested.  Sammy stood rigidly, staring at Dean.

“Where’re you goin?” he asked.  “Dean?”

“Just out for a bit,” Dean said.  He smiled reassuringly.  “Need some fresh air, after all that drama.  I’ll be back soon.  You stay inside with Dad.”

“No,” Sammy said.  “I’m comin with you.”

Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “No you’re not,” he said.  “You’re stayin inside.  Listen to me, Sammy.”  He flicked a glance at their dad.  Then blinked.  The voice.

_Dean._

“I gotta go,” Dean muttered.  That voice, louder, a bell in his mind.

_Dean.  Dean._

“No!” Sammy said.  “I’m comin with you!”  He started to struggle in their dad’s grasp.

 _“Sammy!”_   Both Dean and their dad, yelling at him.  Sammy, writhing to break free.

“You stay _put,_ Sammy!” Dean snapped. 

“No!”

_Dean.  Dean._

Dean was frightened now.  If Sammy followed him…

“Stay _put!”_ he shouted at his brother.  “Or you’re gettin a beatin and that’s a _promise!”_

Sammy stopped struggling.  He stared at Dean, tears in his eyes.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “C’mon.  Don’t go.”

Dean heard this but against the background noise of the other voice, insistent now.

_Dean.  Dean.  Dean._

“I gotta,” he said.  He turned away from Sammy, started towards the door.

“Dean.”  Sammy’s voice again, but sounding different.  Dean turned back at this.

And saw Sammy staring at him, motionless under their dad’s hands.  “Come back to me,” Sammy said quietly.

Dean stood still, staring at his brother. 

His brother _(little brother)._  SamSam.  But also-

“Come back to me,” Sammy said. 

Sammy, looking at him.  And in that level gaze, a memory ( _under Dean’s hands Dean’s mouth, Sammy’s silky naked body, Sammy’s voice, moaning)_ and a message _._

Come back to me.

_(I’m yours/you’re mine)_

_“That’s_ your promise,” Sammy whispered.  “Okay Dean?”

Dean stared at him.  Took a breath.

“Dean,” Manon’s voice.

Dean glanced at her with dislike.  “You’re open right now,” Manon said, “to the spirit world.  Be careful how you speak.”  She met his eyes.  “Spirits hold you to your promises.”

Dean regarded her then Maurice, briefly.  Then dismissed them, turned back to his brother. Sammy looking at him, steady.  Dean watched him for a moment then looked up at their dad, into the hard, sad eyes of their dad.

He stood there, conscious of those four sets of eyes, staring at him.

Bearing witness to _(Dean, returning from the dark, opening his arms to his brother, Sammy jumping into his arms, warm and trembling and Dean kissing him, kissing kissing him, on the mouth, kissing that soft Sammy mouth, opening)_ Dean’s _real_ promise, even if unknowing.

Seeing but not seeing.  Except for Sammy of course.  Sammy saw just fine.  Dean turned his gaze back to Sammy, Sammy’s eyes on him, the awareness there.  Dean seeing this.  And seeing something else too. 

_(Sammy, waiting for Dean obediently.  Staying put, because Dean had told him to)_

Because he was Dean’s.

_(I’ll do anythin you say)_

And yeah, there was pleasure in that.  Dean was aware of it, a dark, anticipatory pleasure, like a low hum under everything else. 

“I’ll come back to you,” he said to his brother.  “I promise.”

He went outside.

 ***

“I remember that,” Sam said quietly. 

Dean’s eyes were on the ceiling.  Sam’s head lay heavy on his chest.  He stroked Sam’s hair, absently. 

“So it was _me_ that brought the spirit,” Sam said.  “When I came in.  Not what that woman did.  Not Dad.”

“Uh huh.”

“Stripped you raw,” Sam said. 

Dean was silent.  So was Sam.

“So what did it look like?” Sam asked him, eventually.  “The werecat.”

“Like a big fuckin cat,” Dean said.  “A mountain lion.”

“What was it doing?”

“Just standin in the yard.  Waitin for me.”

“Did it speak to you?” Sam asked.

“Sort of,” Dean said.

“What’d it say?” Sam aked.

Dean didn’t answer.  Stroked his brother’s hair.

“Dean?”

“It said it was coming back for me,” Dean said.  “That it would meet me, at the lookout point.  The next dark of the moon.”

“…That’s all it say?”

_You broke a taboo today, Dean_

Dean closed his eyes, remembering.  “No,” he said.

“…So are you gonna _tell_ me?”

Dean was silent.

“Dean?”

“If I tell you,” Dean said.  “don’t get mad at me Sammy, okay?”

“...And if I promise that, you’ll tell me?” Sam asked.  His voice sounded different.

Dean didn’t answer.  That voice.  It sounded so grown up.  Adult.  Like a grown up Sam, parachuting into this moment.

He took a breath.  “I’ll tell you,” he said.  “One way or the other.”

 ***

He stood facing the werecat, the door to the cabin shut firmly behind him.  Conscious of Sammy inside, hopefully protected by the combined presence of their dad, that weird priestess person, and the deputy.

The werecat watched him, a silent looming shape against the dark forest.  Dean walked down the cabin’s steps.  Approached the werecat, slowly.

_Dean._

“I’m here,” Dean said.  He was in front of the werecat now.  The animal was truly huge, its broad head almost level with Dean’s.

_Where’s your brother?_

“Fuck off,” Dean said.  “He doesn’t concern you.”

_Yes he does.  He’s the reason you’re here._

“No,” Dean said.  “I’m here because I’m steppin in.  To _kill_ you and that spirit you serve before you kill anyone else.”

_Laughter._

Dean stared at the animal, silent.

_Did the priestess tell you that?_

“My dad did,” Dean said.  “He brought me here, to do that.”

_Bait._

“Yeah.  And you’ve swallowed it.”

_Doesn’t matter._

“Yeah well, one way or another, you’ll still be dead.”

_You know Dean, the priestess was right.  You are the most beautiful boy to come around in a millennia or two.  A true sacrificial prize.  Quite an asset to the family._

“I’m a _hunter,_ asshole.  That’s how I’m an asset.”

_A hunter, really.  Is that how your father sees you?_

“Yes.”

_Laughter.  The meagre skills you have in that line are secondary to your true value and if you don’t believe me, just observe your father.  What’s his go-to position?  To use you to tempt monsters out of hiding.  And already he’s thinking about how you could elicit the desire of others, for money.  So what do you think of that?  Does it make you proud?_

“Fuck off,” Dean said uncomfortably.  “Bein bait’s just part of the job.  I’m not proud of it.”

_Whatever.  But the fact is that it tickles your father pink.  He’s cherishes his ability to use you in this way.  His beautiful son, laid out on the line.  How better to show his commitment to the cause?  Or his influence over you, that’s gratifying too.  And you’re willing.  Because you want to please him._

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said.  “Twist things any way you want.  Because you’ve taken the bait anyway.  You’ll see how meagre my skills are at our next meeting, asshole.”

_Very well.  I guess we’ll see.  But you’re taken too, Dean.  Swallowed, live and kicking.  We have you now.  And not just you._

Dean was cold, suddenly.  He was conscious of himself, alone with this creature, the dark forest before him and the dark sky above, scattered with stars, silent.  But Sammy, safe inside.

“You might have me,” Dean said.  “In the _miniscule_ off chance that you’re the one who wins the fight.  But you’ll never have Sammy.”

_If we have you, we have him.  You brought him with you._

“I did not!”

_No?   You made some promises today, Dean.  For both you and your brother.  Very interesting ones, to those of us in the supernatural world._

“That…wasn’t any of your damn business,” Dean said.  “What Sammy ‘n’ I choose to do is between us.  It doesn’t concern _anyone_ or _anythin_ else. _”_

_No?  You might as well tell your father then.  I’m sure he’ll respect your free will._

Dean was silent.

_Taboos exist for a reason.  They aren’t just superstition.  They’re laws, governing the natural order.  Marking its territory.  A protection, for those who live within it, and a responsibility.  You broke a taboo today, Dean.  Stepped into my territory._

Dean, listening.  Afraid, now.

_And you took your little brother with you.  The two of you came to me, hand in hand._

“You’re a liar!”

_Laughter.  Spirits don’t lie.  That’s an activity of the human realm.  And we’re not there anymore, are we?_

“Sammy has _nothin_ to do with you!”

_You opened your brother to the supernatural by opening yourself.  That’s what brought me to you.  You know it._

“No.”

_Yes.  You put yourself on the table to lure me in.  Willing bait, fair enough.  But you needed Sam to make that happen.  What does that say to you?_

“Leave him alone!”

_If I leave him alone, will you leave the hunt?_

Dean was silent. 

_Three children are dead.  And a fourth one, due.  This is the Solstice night and you know there is another boy out there, just waiting in the wings.  Are you going to give that boy your spot on the stage?  _

Dean, silent.

_You beckoned me, Dean and I’m here.  You’re selected, like you wanted.  Now normally this conversation sounds quite different.  A lot more flowery words, talk about destiny and shit like that.  I’m quite an awesome experience, for my selected ones.  By the time I’m done with them they believe they’re one-in-a-million, specially chosen for a noble quest.  Just dying to meet me next dark of the moon, ha, ha, get it?  But since you and I both know the score, I’ll be straight up.  If you don’t meet me, that other boy will.  And he will for certain die.  And the spirit will manifest itself in this world as has been its long desire.  To wreak untold havoc, et cetera et cetera.  Is that what you want?_

Silence.

_You can still walk away.  With Sam._

Dean closed his eyes briefly. 

“No,” he whispered.

_So what’s your answer?_

“I’ll meet you,” Dean whispered.  “Asshole.”

_Laughter.  Of course you will.  And do you know why?_

“Why don’t you tell me,” Dean said bitterly. 

_Because you hunters are all the same.  Thinking you’re the good guys.  Thinking it’s all up to you._

“Yeah.  So?”

_That’s a fallacy, Dean.  There are no good guys.  There’s only balance.  Balance versus velocity._

“…You’ve lost me.”

_I know.  That’s okay.  Your brother will understand._

“Please,” Dean said.  “Leave Sammy alone.  This is just between you ‘n’ me.”

_Is that so?_

“Yes.”

_Prove it to me._

“How?”

_Walk away from him.  Pick a direction and don’t look back._

“What?  Why!” 

_Because that’s the only way you’ll never touch him again._

Dean was shaking.

_Can’t do it, can you?_

Dean, shaking.

 _(Sammy, his mouth on Dean’s skin)_  

“No,” Dean said, eventually. 

_Laughter.  Well that’s it then.  Guess I’ll be seeing you boys around._

“You’re not comin _near_ Sammy,” Dean said.  “Not you or any other supernatural piece of shit.  I’ll die before I let you get close to him.”

_You may die, yes.  Hunters tend to.  Or you may live out your natural life and realize, at the end, that it might have been better if you had died in the New Hampshire forest, when you were sixteen.  For you and your brother._

“What does _that_ mean?” Dean snapped. 

_Laughter._

“Answer me, shithead!”

_So rude.  But very well.  You’ll love your brother, body and soul.  You’ll protect him, yes.  But you will also hate him, for the power of helpless desire he holds over you.  And the false position he puts you in with your father.  And you’ll be cruel to him, because of it._

“Bullshit!  I could never be cruel to Sammy!”

_You could not?  You have not?  Did you not just promise a beating to him, if he didn’t bend to your will?_

“…That’s different.”

_Oh really?  Well I guess one must be cruel to be kind, isn’t that the phrase?  And when you sleep with the enemy, hold him close._

_“Sammy’s_ not the enemy here.”

_No?  Maybe you should check with your father on that._

“What?”

_Never mind.  It’s time to wrap up this little pow wow, Dean.  And because I’m a nice pussycat, I’ll give you a second chance.  You can still withdraw yourself, walk away.  Literally, walk away.  Pretend none of this happened, including…that which was promised today, between you and Sam.  Sure your father won’t be pleased.  Or Sam.  But they’ll be okay, eventually.  Folks like your father and brother…they always have a Plan B.  _

Dean stared.  “No,” he said.

The werecat closed its eyes half way, which might have been the cat equivalent of a shrug. 

_Very well.  You’ve made your choice._

“Did I?” Dean asked.  His anger was gone and he felt close to tears.  “Did I really have a choice?  Or are you just sayin that to torture me?”

_You will know, some day.  Or maybe not._

The anger was back.  “I’m lookin _forward_ to killin you shithead.  You _and_ your spirit.”

_Laughter.  I’m sure you are.  We all serve the balance.  Goodbye Dean.  For now._

And the werecat was gone.

Dean sank to his knees.  He couldn’t move, would never move again.

But eventually, the door opening behind him. 

“Son?”

“Leave me alone.”

Silence.  Then footsteps.  “Dean.  Come inside.”

“No.  Leave me alone.”

A hand on his shoulder.  “Come inside Dean.  Sammy’s worried.  Cryin.  And he’s furious with me.  Spittin at me like a cat.  Drivin me nuts.”

Dean got to his feet.   “I saw it,” he said to his dad, tiredly.  “The werecat.  We have a date.”

“I know.  And I’m sorry son, about what I had to do, earlier, to bring that about.”

“It wasn’t you,” Dean said.

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it.  Doesn’t matter.”

“Come inside,” his dad said to him.  “Time we called it a night.  You c’n share a glass of Dewars with me, before bed.  Noticed you’d cracked the bottle, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Okay.”  He followed his dad back into the cabin.

 ***

Sam was quiet.  Dean was quiet too.  Waiting.  Holding his breath.

“Wow,” Sam said, eventually.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Dean asked him.

“What, for throwin me under the bus?” Sam said.

“I _didn’t_ do that Sammy, c’mon!” Dean said.  “I just couldn’t walk away, you see that, don’t you?  Couldn’t walk away from the hunt, that other kid dyin, what could have happened there…and I couldn’t walk away from you.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“I couldn’t walk away and just leave you there,” Dean said.  “Not after just comin _back_ to you, Jesus.  I mean, what would you’ve done, if I had?”

“I’d’ve gone crazy,” Sam said.  “I might’ve killed myself.  Or Dad.”

Dean put his arms around him.  “It was never in the cards Sammy.  I was never gonna leave you again, and I promised you that.  And I never will.  I mean that.”

Sam was quiet.

“…So…you mad at me?” Dean asked him.

Sam sighed.  Shrugged.  “No,” he said.  “What’s the point?”  He smiled.  “We all serve the balance.”

Dean felt a chill.  “Do you know what that means?  The werecat said you would.”

“No,” Sam said.  “Not yet.  But I’ll think about it, though.”

Sammy brain.

“Sure,” Dean said.  He felt relief washing over him.  Sam, not mad at him.  Being reasonable.  Dean had made the right call, telling Sam about this.  He felt lighter somehow, like he’d just put down a weight.

“That spirit read you pretty well,” Sam said.

“What?”

“All the rest of what it said.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dean said.

“Really?” Sam asked him.  “Okay.”  He rubbed his cheek against Dean’s chest.  Did that thing he’d do sometimes, of letting all his bones just _settle_ onto Dean, like Dean was a couch.

They lay quietly, Sam’s head on Dean’s chest.  Which was getting numb. Sam had been there for quite some time.  Dean moved him off.

“Hey!”

“You’re puttin a dent in me Sammy.  Snuggle up here for a bit, okay?”  Dean pulled Sam against his side.

Sam shifted himself around, grumbling.  He shoved his head into Dean’s underarm.

Dean felt his muscles relaxing.  Sam, a warm lump curled into his side.  He closed his eyes.  Started to snooze.

“So you have no regrets,” Sam said.

Dean woke up.  “What?”

“Spirit said you’d regret your choices, in the end.”

Dean was annoyed.  “My choices…like savin lives?  Not dyin myself?  Choosin to be here, with you?  Those choices?  No.  I don’t regret them.  The spirit was wrong.”

“Well I guess your life’s not over yet.”

“Jesus, Sammy.  That’s a shitty thing to say to me.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied shortly.  “Okay.  You can’t help bein a bitch sometimes, I know.”

Sam nestled into him.  Put a hand on Dean’s stomach, stroking him, soothing him down.  Dean felt his annoyance slipping away.   

“The spirit wasn’t wrong about the other stuff though,” Sam said.

“Like what?”  Dean lying quietly under Sam’s stroking hand.

“Like how it would be, between us.”

How it would be.

“…You mean, _this?”_ Dean put his own hand on Sam’s chest in a light caress.  He found a nipple, lingered over it.

“Mmm.”  Sam burrowed his head deeper into Dean’s armpit.

“Like _this?_ ” Dean whispered to him.  He was getting interested now.  He circled Sam’s nipple with his thumb, felt it hardening.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  “Do the other one.”

Dean smiled.  Did what Sammy asked.  Sammy’s little satin nipples, god.  He couldn’t get enough of them.

“The spirit wasn’t wrong,” Sam said.  He turned himself into Dean, his cock nestled against Dean’s thigh.  “About us crossin the line.  No _way_ we could go back to…not doin this.  You’d’ve _had_ to leave.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  His hand was on Sam’s cock now and god, he loved that handle too.  He pulled on it, lightly, feeling Sam move with him, letting Dean draw him closer in.  Sam was stroking him again, tender sweeping strokes over Dean’s body, fingers circling.  “The spirit wasn’t wrong about that,” Dean murmured, and he turned towards Sam, taking Sam’s hand and putting it on his own cock, those long fingers folding over him.  “Sammy,” he whispered, thrusting into Sam’s palm.

“So _did_ you start to hate me?” Sam asked him.

Dean stilled.  “What?”

“Was the spirit right about that too?” Sam asked.

“Are we havin this conversation _now?”_ Dean asked him.

“We never stopped,” Sam said.  His hand, cupping Dean’s cock.  “Did we?”

Dean sighed.  He released Sam, rolled onto his back.  “Guess not.  Your _timin,_ Sammy, Jesus.”

“So did you start to hate me?” Sam asked.  “Like the spirit said?”

Dean sighed.  “Don’t ask me that, Sammy.”

“You did then,” Sam said. 

“That spirit was just sayin that to be a dick,” Dean said, “tryin to rattle me because it knew I was gonna kill it.  Which I did.  You know that.”

“But you didn’t say it was wrong,” Sam said.

Dean was silent.

“Answer me,” Sam said.  “Be honest.”

Dean, silent.

“Do you hate me Dean?” Sam asked him quietly.

“No,” Dean said.

Sam looked at him.

Dean sighed.  “Well…okay.  Sometimes.  But like, hardly ever.”

Sam looked at him.

Dean sighed, helplessly. “You know…you know…you know you c’n make me feel like shit…like _dyin,_ sometimes, Sammy.  You _know_ that.  And hatin…it can feel like survival.”

Sam looked at him.

“But I hardly ever felt that way,” Dean said.  “And it never lasted, Sammy, past a minute.  You _know_ that. It was just me, bein hurt and mad.” 

Sam didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.  “I feel bad, even sayin something like that to you.  I’m just tryin to be honest here, like you asked.  I wish you hadn’t asked me that.”

Sam quiet.  Dean felt his brother’s body, Sam’s ribs, softly rising and falling against him.  The tickle of Sam’s hair.  He turned his head and nuzzled against Sam’s smooth forehead.  “I love you,” he whispered, “and…that feels like survival too.”

Sam didn’t respond to this.  Dean could see him thinking.  Sammy-thoughts.  That should have been his cue.  To cut this conversation off (like five minutes ago, if he’d been smart).  And get up.  Take a break.  Take a walk.  Get drunk. 

“I guess it’s okay,” Sam said.  “I mean, sometimes I hate you too.”

“…What?” Dean said.

“Well I do,” Sam said (he sounded so reasonable).  “I hate your guts sometimes, Dean.”

Dean was quiet.  He wasn’t going to react, here.  No.

“So I guess…fair’s fair,” Sam said.

Silence.

“…Fair’s _fair?”_ Dean asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I guess it’s only fair you get to hate me sometimes, too.”

 _“What?”_   Dean said again.

Sam peered up at him.  Dean had the impression of large, long lashed eyes, blinking up at him through hair.  “So it’s fair,” he said, like Dean was a moron.  “It’s okay.”

“Are you _tryin_ to be a bitch?” Dean snapped at him.

Sam blinked.  “No,” he said.  He looked put upon now _._

Dean wasn’t impressed.  “So how… _often_ do you hate me, Sammy?” he asked, dangerously.

Sam shrugged.  “I dunno.  Few times a week, maybe?  But it’s okay Dean, really.  Doesn’t last.  Just like you said.”

“I didn’t say it was okay!  And a few times a _week?_ What for!”

“Well whenever you’re bein an asshole to me.  And I mean, you _are_ kind of an asshole you know.”

“I am not!”

“Well you are, kinda.  Even though you’re not spankin me anymore.”

“I feel like spankin you _now,_ you little brat.”  Dean was speaking through his teeth.

Sam looked at him.  Then grinned, suddenly.  “I know,” he said.  “But you won’t.  Not unless we’re playin around that way, right?” He dropped his voice.  “Not unless I put on the panties.  You promised.”

Dean was silent.  Overcome by a sudden vision.  Sam, in panties.  It had been awhile.  He looked at Sam, now blinking at him innocently.  A little smile on his lips.  Little tease.  _“Why_ did I promise that again?” Dean asked him. 

“Because you’re not stupid,” Sam said.  And suddenly he wasn’t smiling.  “You didn’t want me hatin you _all_ the time.”

Dean was silent.  Flabbergasted.  “I don’t want you hatin me at all!” he said.  And then, “What do you mean, _all_ the time?”

“You know, like all the time,” Sam said.  “Like I hate Dad,” he added.

“You don’t hate Dad.”

“Sure I do,” Sam said.

“Jesus, Sammy.”

Sam shrugged.  “Sorry,” he said.  Then he smiled.  “But it’s okay Dean, I don’t hate _you_ all the time.  Just, you know…a few times a week.”

 _Seriously?_   Dean looked at his brother.  Was Sam seriously _fucking with him_ about this?

Sam smiled at him.  Sweetly.

Dean suddenly couldn’t take any more.  He sat up and leaned over Sam.  “You’re overusin that word,” he said.

Sam frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Dean said.  “You’re not stupid either.  Now get up.”

“What?”

Dean grasped Sammy by the hips and flipped him over.  Yanked him up on his hands and knees.

“Dean!”  Sam started to struggle.  “What-“

Dean clamped onto him. “You think it’s _fun,_ fuckin with me, huh?  Okay.”  Sam was trying to throw Dean off.  “Stay still!” 

“Dean c’mon!  We just did!”

“Well looks like you need it again.”  Dean was hunting around on the bed, looking for the lube.  Located it, hidden in a fold of quilt.  Turned back to Sam just in time to see him wriggling away.  Grabbed onto that little butt.  “I said, stay _still!”_

“Dean!  You can’t-”  And Dean descended on him.   

“Oh!”

Dean was licking in between Sam’s cheeks, tasting the salty fluids from before, licking them away.  He bit Sam’s asshole, lightly.  Jabbed his tongue, there.

“Dean – oh!  Seriously!  C’mon-“  That little butt wriggling and Dean was reacting to that -yes he was.  He bent over one trembling cheek and bit it.

_“Oh!”_

“Oh _what,_ you little bitch?”  Dean squeezed some lube over his hands.  Put them between Sam’s legs, slicking him up, Sam’s balls hanging down like dark red fruit.  Dean grasped them, carefully.  Then pulled.

_“Oh!  Dean!”_

“Yes, Sammy?”  Dean’s mouth up between Sam’s legs, mouthing Sam’s balls, licking them, holding those balls carefully towards his mouth _(Sammy, his little ice cream cone),_ the rosy skin pulled taut.  And Sam still wriggling, but not to get away anymore, now tipping his butt up invitingly.  And Dean’s other hand finding Sam’s cock, palming it, that slick, hard cock, that satiny flesh sliding between his fingers.  Pulling on him now, thumbing the tip of that cock expertly and Sam gasping.  “You’re a nice handful Sammy,” Dean said.  And then licking him, jabbing his tongue into all those gorgeous little spots, nibbling at him, nipping at Sam’s balls, the crack of his ass.  Palming, thumbing his cock, Sam mewling now, his legs spread wide, his ass split open and turned up under Dean’s hands and mouth like a ripe piece of fruit.  Dean smiled.  Bent down and bit that ass again.  Kissed that silky ass.  Licked it.  “You’re nice everythin,” he murmured.

He felt Sam trembling.  “You hate me now?” Dean murmured to him.  “You hate your asshole brother?”

“Yes,” Sam gasped. 

“No you don’t,” Dean said.  “You need to be careful Sammy, what you say.”  He was kneeling up behind Sam, his hands on Sam’s hips, positioning him.  Thrust two lubed up fingers deep into Sam’s ass, the blazing heat there.  Sam mewled.  “Like that Sammy?” Dean whispered to him.  His fingers, starting their strong massage.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  His ass was shaking.  Dean felt close to exploding, looking at this.  Sammy’s ass, impaled on his fingers, trembling.  Just waiting for him.

“Ready to be fucked now?” Dean asked him.  And his fingers inside Sam, rubbing him, curling in, pressing down _hard._

Sam moaned.

“Sammy?  Gimme some words, here.”

“Yeah,” Sam moaned. 

“What?  Didn’t hear you.”

 _“Fuck me,”_ Sam moaned.  He thrust his ass up higher against Dean’s fingers.  “You jerk,” he said to Dean.

Dean grinned.  “Well alright then.”  He withdrew his fingers, wiping them on Sam’s thigh.  Placed the head of his cock up against the dark flower of Sam’s asshole and started pushing in.  Sam yelped.

“Ow, _ow_ Dean!  I’m _sore!”_

Dean stopped mid way.  Lifted up his hands.  “You want me to stop?”

Sam’s ass, bobbing.  “N-no…”

“Then stop whining, put that head down and get ready to take it,” Dean said.  “Because I’m gonna _ride_ you, Sammy.  Ride you hard.”  He leaned forward.  “You c’n moan though,” he said into Sam’s ear.  “I like that.”  He put his thumbs on either side of Sam’s asshole and repositioned himself.

Sam’s voice.  “But-“ Dean thrust in, smooth and deep.  “ _Oh!”_

“That’s it,” Dean said.  He had both hands on Sam’s hips now, thrusting into him.  “Moanin’s _fine.”_

Sam’s sleek, silky body, turned up under him, shaking now, that firm round butt pressing back against Dean’s cock. 

Dean looked down at this contemplatively.  “Uh huh…this is what you get Sammy, for fuckin around with your mouth,” he said.  And fucking Sam, _hard_ now. “Sayin you hate me…like it doesn’t cost you _shit.”_   Another hard thrust.  Sam gasped.  Dean reached under Sam and grabbed his cock again.  Started working that cock.  “Dean,” Sam moaned.  “Please-“

“-Nope,” Dean said.  “No ‘please.’  You just concentrate on bein my good little pony.”

Sam put his head down.  He thrust his ass high into the air.  Dean patted him.  “That’s it,” he said.  Then leaned forward.  “You askin me if I ever _hated_ you…well…” Pulling on Sam’s cock and fucking into him from behind, Sam gasping but rocking with him now, letting Dean ride him.  “Those _rare_ times…when you just _pushed_ me…Sammy, I gotta tell you, I hated _myself,_ so much more.”  And putting both hands on Sam’s hips now, grasping him firmly and _fucking_ him, hard, hard and hearing Sam’s laboured breaths, feeling that little butt tilting up, thrusting back against him.  “You made me feel like dyin…” Dean whispered.  Fucking him.  “And then I’d feel like…I deserved it.”

And fucking Sam.  _Hard._

Sam moaned.  Dean smiled.  “So don’t go tellin me you hate me like it’s somethin you c’n live with,” he said.  “You’re not that much of a bitch.”  And _fucking him,_ thrusting so deep into Sam now, Dean’s cock right in there, pushing against the hot, slick _tight_ centre of Sammy, Sam, SamSam, little brother, baby, his, and Dean touching the core of him finally, that final, trembling, blazing heat.

Sam’s head was down, his forehead pressed against the pillow.  He was panting, back arched, butt straining up, satin skin gleaming with sweat.  “Dean,” he gasped into the pillow.  “Omigod-“

“You’re so hot, baby,” Dean whispered back to him.  “Ready to come now?”  And he reached under Sam again, grasped his cock.

Sam moaned.  And then Dean felt him start to tremble, that familiar, awesome feeling of Sam’s body, trembling, tightening, gathering in upon itself, the tight, hot walls of Sam clutching so tight around Dean’s cock, Sam’s cock starting to pulse in his hand.  And then Sam coming, keening, releasing into Dean’s palm in a warm wet gush and Dean right behind him, shuddering, fucking one final time into Sam's hot, tight ass and coming into that beautiful ass, releasing into that ass with this overwhelming, soaring, _awesome_ pleasure, every nerve end singing and his own raw voice, calling out his brother's name.

Dean, dozing. 

Collapsed on top of Sam, a leg thrown over him, an arm thrown over him, his nose buried in Sam’s hair.

“Dean.”

“Mmmph.”

Dozing.

_“Dean.”_

“What.”

An elbow, jabbing at him.  “Heavy.”

Dean rolled over.  He felt Sam come with him, that silky head settling on his chest again.  Dean smiled.  Started stroking Sam’s hair.

“Hate me now?” he asked tenderly.

“Shut up,” Sam said.

Dean laughed.  “I’m the best,” he said.  “Aren’t I?”

“Fuck off.”

Dean, laughing.  “I c’n take you to the moon, Sammy,” he said.  “And don’t deny it.”

“I’m not,” Sam said.  “But I still think you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean sighed, smiling.  Rubbed Sam’s head.  “Whatever I am, I’m yours.”  He paused.  Then continued, more seriously.  “I’m yours Sammy.”

“You’re mine,” Sam said.  And his voice was softer now. 

Dean smiled.  Then nuzzled him, smooching earlobes, cheeks, temples, forehead, any skin he could get to.  Sammy, Sammy’s soft skin.

“So I guess this is it, then,” Sam said, after absorbing this for awhile.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.  He was getting snoozy again, ready to put his nose into Sammy and drift off.

“We just go on like this,” Sam said.  “What we’re doin.  Bein careful.  Stayin low.”

Dean sighed.  Sam, _still_ talking, Jesus.  Low maintenance – _not_ the definition of his brother.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That’s about it.”

“You think the spirits’ll leave us alone?” Sam asked.

“They will,” Dean replied.  “Or come up against me.”

He saw Sam thinking about this.  “Hunters too, I guess,” Sam said.  “You won’t let them mess with us either.”

“Nope.”

“After you killed that spirit…was there ever another one?”  Sam asked him. “That came close to us I mean.”

“Nope,” Dean said.  “Not that I could tell.  And I’ve been on the lookout too.  Been real careful.  Made sure our warding was strong – well _you’ve_ seen that.  And just…careful.  You know.”

“Is that why you’ve been so paranoid about me bein out of your sight?” Sam asked him.

Dean laughed with surprise.  _“Paranoid?”_

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly. 

“Well, maybe,” Dean said.  “Maybe that was part of it.  Gettin up close and personal with that thing…it was an eye opener.  Enough to make anyone paranoid.”

“And the other part was just you bein you,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.  “Guess so.”

“The spirit said-“ Sam hesitated.

“Yeah?”

“The spirit said…that you’d be cruel to me,” Sam said.  “That you’d hate me.  Because of what we’re doin.  Because of Dad.  That I was puttin you in a false position.”

Dean didn’t answer.  His feeling of wellbeing had vanished.

“Dean?”

“I don’t hold anythin against you Sammy,” Dean said.  “Not because of what we’re doin, and not because of Dad, either.”

“I know I come between you ‘n’ Dad.” Sam said.  His voice was sad.

“Sammy,” Dean said.  “You comin between me ‘n’ Dad, that’s about me ‘n’ Dad.  Or more…that’s about Dad.  The way _he_ is.  Okay?  Don’t put that on yourself.  Okay?  I don’t.”

“But you still ended up bein…cruel,” Sam said.  “Was the spirit wrong about that?”

Pain.  Dean heard this like pain.  Sammy, saying that to him.  _Cruel._ To Sammy.  How to bear that thought?  He almost couldn’t _hear_ it.  And couldn’t answer, not immediately.  But Sam needed an answer.  They both did. 

“No,” Dean said, finally.  “the spirit wasn’t wrong about that.” 

“Why,” Sam asked him, quietly.  “Why were you like that to me?”

Dean, silent.  Trying to answer.  That question, almost impossibly painful.  And a memory suddenly, also painful like that, rising up.

_(This is gonna be a hard one.  You ready?_

_Yes sir)_

Dean, remembering that last beating from his dad, the most brutal one of all.  But then all the others too, his dad’s belt striping him, year after year, as far back as Dean could remember.  His dad, beating discipline into him and Sammy.  But eventually, not Sammy. 

_( I’m the one disciplinin him._

_Well do it, then)_

Cruel.  Being that. 

The spirit, mocking him.

_(I guess one must be cruel to be kind)_

Dean looked at Sam.  His brother’s eyes on him, waiting.

There’d been an agreement, Dean understood that now.  A contract between him and his dad (and Sammy).  Complex, with multiple clauses.  With terms adjusted, over time.

_(How hard it’ll be is up to you)_

_(Yes Dean)_

But all of them, in agreement.  About the infliction of pain as _necessary,_ to be shared out and received in its various flavours.  As central to Dean’s family as loyalty and love.  And not to be questioned.  _How_ and _what,_ those were the questions.  Never _why._

For years, this.  Forever.

And they’d all signed up like they had no choice.  And Dean had never really thought about it, hadn’t wanted to, particularly.  The spirit had not been wrong.

“I don’t know why, Sammy,” Dean answered him, finally.  “There’s no good reason.”

Sam’s eyes on him.  “You were cruel to me and you were okay with that,” Sam said to him.  “And sometimes…you still are.”

Skin.  Peeled off.  Stripped away.  Infliction of pain.  Dean knew all about it.  And so did Sam.

“I know,” Dean said.  He couldn’t hold Sam’s gaze anymore.  He looked down.

“And sometimes… _I’m_ okay with it.  Gets me goin.  Gets me there.”  Sam sounded like he was crying.  “You know?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I know.  I get it.”

“And sometimes…” Sam said, “it doesn’t.”  And in his voice the sadness of years.

“I know,” Dean whispered.  “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“I’m so fucked up,” Sammy whispered back.

Dean looked up at this.  “You’re not, Sammy,” he said.  “You’re great.  If I’ve been an asshole to you that’s on me, not you.  I’ll try to smarten up.  I’ve been trying.  I want to do...what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Sam replied quietly.  “I thought I did.  But I don’t think I know, anymore.”

“You want me,” Dean said.  “Don’t you?”

Sam didn’t answer.

“Sammy?”

Sam was quiet.  Dean watched him, his whole body still suddenly, like he’d been flash frozen.  But then Sam turned to him.  Put his arms around him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I want you.”  He sighed.  “Even if I hate it, sometimes.”

A breath.  Relief.  But fresh pain too, ripping through him.  “Don’t say that Sammy,” Dean said.  “Please.”

Sam, quiet.  But then he did another of those Sammy things, burrowing into Dean’s side like he was trying to fit under Dean’s skin.  “I’m sorry.  I love you, Dean,” he said, the words muffled.

“I love you too,” Dean whispered.  “Always.”

Sam staying burrowed there.  Breathing against Dean’s skin.  Dean held him, his insides twisting.

_(You’ll love your brother, body and soul)_

_(You’ll protect him)_

He would, he would.  He’d do better.  He’d do anything.

Sam eventually turned around, flopping onto his back.  He took Dean’s hand, held it for awhile.  Then said, rather conversationally, “About that school dance- “

Jesus.

Dean groaned.  “You want to talk about that, _again?_   You’re killin me, Sammy, seriously. _”_

“Not talk.  I wanna _do_ something,”  Sam sat up, untangling himself from Dean.  He looked down, his eyes lively now, no shadows in them.

Dean looked back at him warily.  “Am I gonna survive it?”

Sam smiled at him.  Then he got up, walked naked over to the wood stove.  Stacked more kindling in. 

“What’re you doin?” Dean asked him.

“Room’s cold,” Sam said.  “Can’t have that.”  He was over at the kitchen cupboards, rummaging through them.  “Here we are.”  He turned.  He was holding candles in both hands, the emergency candles Dean had stocked up on.  Went over to the kitchen table. 

“What’re you _doin?_ ” Dean said.

“Providin us with some atmosphere,” Sam said.  He was lighting the candles, using their wax to stick them onto plates and bowls.

“We gotta _eat_ off those, you know,” Dean said. 

“I’ll clean them up after,” Sam said.  He arranged the candles on various surfaces, the room flickering now with a soft warm glow.  He went over to the tape deck Dean had bought them from the pawn shop, sitting on the counter beside a stack of cassette tapes.  Selected a tape and slipped it in.

“That better not be Madonna,” Dean said.  Sam grinned at him.  “Nope.  Another one of your favorites.”

He was crouched over his duffel, rummaging through it.  Straightened up, the little kilt in his hands.  Dean’s eyes widened.  He swallowed.  “Sammy?” he asked.

“Close your eyes,” Sam said. 

Dean looked at him.

Sam looked back.  “Close your eyes, Dean,” he said.  “Go on.”

Dean closed his eyes reluctantly.  Heard Sam rustling around.

“Okay you can open ‘em now,” Sam said.

Dean opened his eyes.  Stared.

Sam was standing in front of him, wearing that tiny little kilt and his white dress shirt, tied in a knot at his midriff.  His flat tummy, his gleaming long legs, a girl’s legs, suddenly.

“Holy shit,” Dean said.

Sam smiled at him.  He picked up the pair of jeans that Dean had left lying on the floor.  “Get dressed,” he said.  “We’re goin on a date.”

Dean got up, took his jeans from Sam.  “Where?” Dean asked him.  He pulled his jeans on, not bothering with shorts.  Sam handed him a tshirt.

“Nowhere,” Sam said.  “Or here, rather.”  He looked at Dean critically, tilting his head.  “Your hair’s messed up,” he said.

Dean ran his fingers through his hair.  “Better?”

“Yeah.”  Sam turned away from him, went over to the tape deck.  Turned it on.  The sound of Savage Garden filled the room.

Dean groaned theatrically.  “Sammy-“ then stopped.  Sam was staring at him.  Tears were in his eyes.

Sam held out his arms.  “Come dance with me.  Dean.”

Dean stood, watching him.  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

“Please,” Sam whispered.  His eyes, glimmering.

Dean went over and folded his arms around his brother, winding them tight around Sam’s waist.  Sam’s arms settled around his neck.

Sam’s nose was on his neck, little cold nose like always.  Dean held him.  He was having trouble breathing, a tight ache in his chest.  Sam, lithe and graceful and warm against him, his slender hips swaying.  They started to dance.

Sam’s breath was shuddering.  Dean felt the tears, dropping onto his skin.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  Holding him.  “Don’t cry.”

“This is what we’ve got,” Sam said.  His chest was heaving.  “This is it.”  Holding Dean.  Swaying against him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “But it’s enough, Sammy, don’t you see?  It’s gotta be.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I see,” he whispered.

“It’ll be enough,” Dean said fiercely.  “I promise.  I promise you, Sammy.  It’ll be enough.”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  He was breathing slower now, more calmly.  He’d settled against Dean, fitted tight against him, his sleek silky head on Dean’s shoulder.  Dean brought a hand up, stroked his hair.

“Just dance with me,” Sam said softly.

“Okay,” Dean said.


	38. Chapter 38

The first time Sam called Aaron, Dean knew about it.  Sam and Dean had driven into town and Sam called Aaron from a payphone, with Dean standing right next to him.  Sam had called Aaron because they needed to know if he was going to press charges against Dean, so him and Dean (and their dad) could plan accordingly.

It was Sam who suggested it.  Dean hadn’t been enthused.  He’d figured they could just get their dad to call Aaron’s house again.  But Sam didn’t think it was such a great idea for their dad to keep impersonating a cop.  There was the risk of Aaron’s family figuring out this wasn’t legit, and also, it wasn’t impossible that Aaron could always say he wasn’t pressing charges and then change his mind, or say he _was_ …and what would their dad say then?  Either way, their dad’s leverage was limited (I mean, what was their dad going to say to Aaron while impersonating a _cop_ … _don’t_ press charges?).  And they couldn’t pussyfoot around this indefinitely, after all, at some point their family would have to re-surface if Sam was ever going to re-enrol in school. 

So Sam decided it was better for _him_ to call Aaron.  Determine the likelihood of him causing trouble.  And maybe…convince him not to.

Dean was the first one who needed convincing though.

“Forget it Sammy.  You’re not talkin to him again.”

They were sitting at the table, eating the last of the eggs.  They had enough food for maybe two more days then they’d need to go on another supply run.  And they were low on cash too.  Dean had been talking about hitting a bar, finding himself a game.  Sam hadn’t been in favour of that (Dean had never hustled by himself before – he’d always had their dad as backup).  Sam had suggested Dean find himself a real job which of course was a bit dicey given Dean’s uncertain status as a free and law abiding citizen.  And that had eventually led them to this discussion.

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam said to him.  “It’s the fastest way to find out.  We can’t hide in the woods all winter.”

“Why not?” Dean replied.  “I c’n figure somethin out.  I always do.”

Sam looked at him.  Dean had a familiar stubborn expression on his face.  Sam took a breath.  His big brother, Jesus.  Okay.

“Sure,” he said.  “Okay.  I know you can, you’re absolutely right.  (Dean looked rather gratified).  “But I still need to go back to school pretty soon,” Sam continued.  “I don’t want to lose the whole term.  I need to sign up somewhere and how’re we gonna manage that with both you _and_ Dad off the grid?  And do you _really_ want this thing doggin you for shit knows how long?  C’mon.”

Dean looked stubborn again.  “I don’t want you talkin to him Sammy and that’s that.”

Sam sighed.  “Well who then?”

“Dad,” Dean replied.  “Or me.  I’ll call him.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Are you nuts?  Aaron’s not gonna talk to you.”

“I’ll pretend to be someone else,” Dean said.

“Yeah?” Sam asked.  “Who?  Another cop?  And anyway, he might recognize your voice.  He’s not an idiot you know.”

Dean didn’t like that, Sam could tell.  “You think a lot of that little twerp don’t you?” he snapped.

“Dean, Jesus,” Sam said.  “I’m just tryin to fix this mess –that _you_ created…remember?”

Dean looked down at his plate.  Moved his fork around.  Chewed, thoughtfully.  Sam waited.  Eventually Dean looked up.  “Okay Sammy,” he said.  “If I let you call him – _if_ – what’re you gonna say?”

“I’m gonna ask him if he’s pressin charges against you.  And if he says yes I’m gonna…ask him not to.”

Dean looked at him.  “And you think he’ll listen to you?” he asked.

Sam met his eyes.  “Yes,” he said.

Dean clearly didn’t like that either.  He glared at Sam.

Sam gazed back, steadily.

“It’s the best way Dean,” he said, eventually.  “You know that, same as me.”

Dean, not happy.  But eventually he agreed.  And later Sam made him feel better (a _lot_ better) about letting Sam have his way on this one.

So the next day they drove into town, found a payphone.  And Sam called his old school. 

“Hi…may I please speak with Aaron Kelden?” Sam asked the school secretary as soon as she picked up.  He made his voice higher and younger.  “It’s Josh, his brother,” he said, in response to her question.  “I got an emergency and I can’t reach our Mom.  Okay.  Thanks.”  Sam waited.  He glanced over his shoulder.  Dean was right behind him.  Breathing on him.  “Back off,” Sam hissed at him.  “You’re makin me nervous.”  Dean stepped back.

Aaron on the line.  “Josh,” he said.  “You okay?  What’s up?”

“It’s Sam,” Sam said.

Silence.

“I really need to speak with you,” Sam said to him.  “C’n you talk?” 

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  “Sort of.  Where are you?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said.  “I’m out of state.  Are _you_ okay?”

“…Yeah.  Why’re you calling me?”

“I need to know if you’re gonna press charges against Dean.”

Silence.  Then, _“…That’s_ why you’re calling me?”

“Please Aaron,” Sam said.  “I really need to know.”

“No,” Aaron answered shortly.  “I’m not.”

Sam let out a breath of relief.  Turned around and glared at Dean, who’d come close again.  “Go away,” he mouthed.  Flapped his hand.  Dean backed off.   Sam turned back to the phone.  “Thanks Aaron,” he said.  “I really appreciate it.  It means a lot.  Really.”

“Glad it makes you happy,” Aaron replied in a flat voice.

“Aaron…” Sam said.  He glanced at Dean.  His brother was staring at him.  “You’re not gonna change your mind are you?” he asked.

“Should I?”  Aaron asked him.  “ _Mom and Dad_ want me to.”

“Don’t Aaron,” Sam said.  “Please?  It’ll make things real tough for me if you do.  And Dean’s real sorry for what he did.  He’d make it up to you, if he could.”  Sam glanced at Dean again.  Dean was rolling his eyes.  Sam scowled at him.

“Sure,” Aaron said.  He didn’t say anything else.

Sam didn’t know if this was Aaron agreeing or Aaron being sarcastic.  He waited a moment.  Aaron didn’t say anything else.  But he didn’t seem to be going anywhere either.

“Aaron…” Sam hesitated.  “I-“ he glanced at Dean. 

“What?” Aaron asked him.

“I just really…appreciate it,” Sam said awkwardly, staring at his brother.  “That you’re not doing that.  I mean it.  Seriously.”

Silence.  Then Aaron asked quietly, “Are you alone?” 

“What?” Sam said.

“You’re not, are you,” Aaron said.  “You’re with _him.”_

“…Yeah,” Sam replied cautiously.  “I am.”

“You okay?” Aaron asked him.  He was whispering now.  “Sam?  D’you need help?  Just say yes or no.”

 _“No,”_ Sam said, with emphasis.  “But…thanks.”

Silence again.  Then Aaron said, “Look…call me back.  Later.  On my cell.  You’ve got the number, right?”  He gave Sam the number.

“Sorry,” Sam said.  “What did you say?”

Aaron repeated the number.

“Okay,” Sam said, the number memorized now.  “Thanks again Aaron.  I mean it, really.  I gotta-”

“Wait,” Aaron said.  “Don’t go yet-“  And then a woman’s voice in the background, Aaron speaking away from the receiver “No, he’s okay,” Aaron said.  “We’re just figuring things out.  Can you give me another minute?  Thanks Mrs. Snelson.”  Speaking into the phone again.  “She’s getting a coffee.  I can talk now.  Sam, where the fuck _are you?_   Are you seriously _okay?”_

“I told you, I’m out of state,” Sam said.  “And yes, I’m okay, really.  I’m fine.”

“I was worried,” Aaron said.  “We all were.”

Sam felt tears rise suddenly.  Friends.  He’d had friends around him, for a brief moment.  He blinked.  “Thanks,” he said, swallowing.  Looked up at Dean, who’d stepped close again.  Sam held the receiver tighter to his ear to prevent Dean overhearing Aaron’s side of the conversation.  “Nothin to worry about.”

“…You coming back?” Aaron asked him, after a pause.

“Prob’ly not,” Sam said.  Looked at Dean.  Who was watching him, carefully.  Sam was getting nervous.  This conversation couldn’t go where it looked like it was going.  Not with Dean standing right next to him.  “No,” Sam said, more definitely.

“So I’m…never gonna see you again?” Aaron asked him.

Sam, holding the phone smashed up tight to his ear.  Looking at Dean.  His brother’s eyes were dark now.  Dean wasn’t an idiot.  He’d picked up on _something._

“Aaron, so…I really need to know…did you mean it, when you said you wouldn’t press charges?”  Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Aaron said, after a pause.  “I did.”

“Why?” Sam asked him.

“Is that you, asking?” Aaron asked him.  “Or _him?”_

 _“I’m_ asking,” Sam said.  “Please Aaron, I really need to know if I have to worry about this.  It could affect me real negatively.”

A pause. 

“You don’t need to worry,” Aaron said.  He sounded flat again.

“Thanks,” Sam said.  “I really mean that.  And I’m sorry you got hurt man, seriously.”  He met Dean’s eyes.  “I really appreciate…what you’re doin,” he finished lamely.  Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“It wasn’t just for _you,”_ Aaron replied suddenly, bitterly.

“…What do you mean?” Sam asked, after a moment.

“The whole situation was just…weird,” Aaron said.  “The way your brother was yelling at you like he was out of his mind…calling you a _bitch_ …and then punching me out like _I’d_ done something…it was just fuckin weird, okay?  And I don’t need that.  I don’t need that going any further.  I told my dad it wasn’t anything, just a stupid misunderstanding.  My dad doesn’t need to hear I got knocked out because I had my arm around a _boy_ who was dressed up as a _girl_ and that boy’s brother got psycho pissed because of that…and no one else needs to hear it either.   Bad enough that kids were talking, even if mostly no one saw shit and at least you hightailed it out of there.  Left _me_ out cold on the _floor,_ but…whatever.  But I want that whole story _gone,_ and pressing charges won’t exactly help _that._   And the last thing I need is my dad thinking I’m a fag.  Or anyone else.” 

He was quiet.

“Oh,” Sam said sadly.  “I see.  Okay.  Well thanks anyway Aaron.  I appreciate it anyways.  Say hi to the guys for me okay?  Say hi to Carla.”  He started to hang up the phone.

“Wait,” Aaron said.  “You’re gonna call me later, right?  I gave you my number.”

“No,” Sam said.  “I don’t think so.  Bye Aaron.”

“Wait,” Aaron said.  “Sam!  Just wait- ”

“What?” Sam said impatiently.  Watching Dean, staring at him.  His brother made the ‘time out’ signal with his hands.

“I want to talk to you again,” Aaron said.  “So call me.  Okay?  You’re calling me?”

“No,” Sam said.  “I’m not.  I gotta go now.  Bye-“

“Sam!”  Aaron snapped.  “You want me to change my mind?”

Sam paused.  Looked at Dean.  Dean raised his eyebrows.  Made to take the phone.  Sam grabbed it back.  “Stop _hoverin!”_ he mouthed at Dean silently.  “You’re drivin me _nuts!”_   Dean looked sheepish.  He stepped away again.  Sam glared at him then turned his back, flouncing his shoulders in that bitchy way he knew always got Dean irritated.  He took a couple of steps further from his brother and hunched himself over the phone’s receiver.  Spoke closely into it.

“You won’t be pressin any charges,” he whispered to Aaron coldly.  “You’ve convinced me of that so don’t bother threatenin.  Can’t have anyone thinkin you’re a _fag,_ right?  Don’t worry.  I get it.”

“Sam,” Aaron’s voice sounded different now.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it like that.  I really want you to call me.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“Please,” Aaron whispered.  “Call me.  Okay?  I feel so shitty and I can’t talk to anyone.”

Sam was quiet.

“Sam,” Aaron whispered.  He paused.  “You there?”

“…Yeah,” Sam said.

“I can’t talk to _anyone,”_ Aaron repeated.  He sounded shaky now.  “Sam.  You know?”  Sam heard him take a breath.  “I feel so alone,” Aaron said.  “You have no idea.”  Another pause.  “You still there?”

Sam sighed.  “Yeah,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Aaron answered quietly.  And then paused.  When he spoke again, it sounded like he was speaking through tears.  “I don’t…feel like going on, sometimes,” he whispered.  “You know?”

Sam closed his eyes. 

_(You know?)_

He opened his eyes again.  And saw Dean standing right in front of him, watching him, concerned.  Somehow Sam didn’t think Dean would take kindly to being told to back off, this time. 

“Okay,” Sam said.  “I get it.” 

“What?” Aaron said.

“I get it,” Sam said.  “Tell everyone hi and it was…great hanging with them.  Okay?”

 _“Sam…”_ Aaron said.  “Are you _calling me?”_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “Okay.  No problem.”

“…Soon, okay?” Aaron said to him.  “Call me as soon as you can.”

“No worries,” Sam said.  “And thanks again, okay?  Thanks.  I really gotta go now.  Bye Aaron.”

“Bye Sam,” Aaron said.  It sounded like he was speaking through tears again.

Sam hung up.  He turned to face Dean. 

“So?” Dean said.

Sam shrugged.  “He said he wasn’t goin to press charges.”

Dean, looking at him.  “And you believe him?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “He was pretty convincing.  Didn’t want to have to go on record that you punched him because he got between me and you when I was dressed up as a _girl._   Didn’t want people lookin too hard at that.”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah I see that.  Okay.”

Sam smacked him.  “You’re just as bad as he is!  Fuck off.”  He stomped towards the Impala, parked nearby.

Dean caught up with him.  “I’m sorry Sammy,” he said.  But he was smiling.  “But this is good news, huh?  I’m callin Dad.  Then we’ll see about gettin you back in school.”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Fine.”  He’d climbed into the Impala’s passenger seat, slamming the door a little too hard.

Dean was back in the car too.  He winced.  “Sammy, Jeez.”

“Sorry,” Sam said shortly.  “Let’s go, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said.  He pulled onto the street.  “But since we’re here, we might as well drive around a bit.  Check out the town.  See if anyone’s hirin.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He was staring out of the window.  Thinking about that conversation.  Aaron’s strained voice.

_(I can’t talk to anyone)_

Sam ran Aaron’s cellphone number over in his mind.  Looked at his watch.  School would be out in about an hour.

“Think you could maybe drop me at the library?” he asked Dean.  “If you’re lookin for work it’d probably be better if you didn’t have me taggin along.  You c’n pick me up when you’re done.”

Dean glanced at him. 

“Plus I don’t feel like sittin in the car all afternoon,” Sam added.  “I want to get a coffee and read a book.  And sit somewhere warm.  You know, like, with central heatin.  In an _armchair.”_

Dean smiled.  “Okay princess,” he said.  “We’ll set you up.  I think I saw the library back near that payphone.”   He turned the car around.  “Need some money for coffee?”

“Yeah,” Sam said absently.  Dean handed him a five.  Sam took it.  Smiled at his brother.  Then sat back and looked out the window. 

_(Call me soon as you can)_

So.  Okay. 

He’d call Aaron back, like Aaron had asked.  As soon as school was out.

And that was the start of it.  It got so that Sam was calling Aaron once or twice a week.  Just regular conversations, bullshit stuff for the most part, just like Sam and Aaron were still just hanging out with the rest of the guys (although they’d never talked that much, one-on-one, when they’d _actually_ been hanging out). 

Sam wondered sometimes, why Aaron was so attached to these conversations.  He never brought up the stuff he’d said in that first call.  Sam had asked him about it, just as soon as he’d called Aaron back (I mean, he’d figured Aaron _wanted_ to talk about that stuff…why else had he been so insistent Sam call him?).  But Aaron said no, he didn’t want to.  And then he’d changed the subject.  And hadn’t brought it up since.  And somehow, Sam felt weird about bringing it up himself.  So he didn’t.

And Aaron never brought up the moment they’d shared when Sam had climbed into his car either (and Sam wondered why and sort of wanted to ask him _,_ but if Aaron was going to be like that well…forget it.  Let _Aaron_ be the one to bring that up).  But Aaron hadn’t.

So they ended up talking about…nothing much.

But Aaron always pinned him down Sam noticed, for their next phone call, before he’d let Sam off the line.

“So you’re callin Saturday, right?”  Aaron would ask, after they’d finished talking about basketball or whatever.

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said.

“Round two p.m.?”

“Sure.”

“Or is three better?  What time you gonna be in town?”  (Aaron seemed to keep track of Sam’s schedule and pretty much knew where he’d be on any given day).

“No two’ll be fine,” Sam said.  “I should be in town by then.”

“You were late the last time,” Aaron said.

Sam rolled his eyes (I mean, who did _this_ sound like?  Jesus).  “Sorry,” he said, a little shortly.  “Circumstances beyond my control.  I’ll try to call you around two, okay?  But it won’t be any later than three, I promise.”

“Well…okay.”

“’Kay,” Sam answered.  He was still irritated.  “Bye.”

“Take care of yourself,” Aaron said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And he heard his voice, softer now.  He hung up on Aaron gently.

And called him the next Saturday.  Even though he felt like kind of an idiot for doing it.

I mean, him and Dean were getting along pretty well these days and if there was one thing Sam was clear on, it was that Dean would _not_ be understanding about this.

Nope.  Sam forsaw major problems from that direction, if Dean ever found out.

So he was careful, of course. 

He understood how Aaron felt though.  That alone feeling…knowing something so important about yourself but _also_ knowing that no one _else_ knew…and that they _couldn’t_ know...Sam got that, alright.  And Aaron had it worse than him.  At least Sam had Dean.

Which, he figured, was a big reason he kept calling Aaron, in some weird twisted way.

Because of what he heard in Aaron’s voice, underneath their mild conversations about (and insert any of your standard socially acceptable guy conversations here – Sam figured he and Aaron had covered all of them by now except fishing, even talking about _golf,_ Jesus…it appeared that all his solitary hours reading through the library stacks had some social benefit after all), and talking about school and the day to day doings of their mutual friends (Carla and Geoff were now an item)…underneath all that, what Sam heard in Aaron’s voice was a quiet desolation.

And hearing that, well…it was easy to appreciate Dean after that, after hearing the way Aaron sounded.

So, Sam would tell himself, Dean actually derived a _benefit_ here (not that Dean would have appreciated it of course, had he known why).

But there was a benefit to his brother, regardless, from these secret conversations. 

Sam was always extra nice to him afterwards.

Sam, entering the diner after school, following a quick call to Aaron (it was routine for him to call Aaron after school on Wednesdays now).

Nodding to Rhonda, who grinned back at him (she was alone at the front, Shelley taking a break before coming back to help with the dinner crowd).  Walking past the tables, a few of them populated with kids from Sam’s school – the diner an after-school hangout.  Making his way towards the grill at the back, catching Dean’s eye (and as he got closer, passing a booth packed with teenage girls, all of them giggling and talking loudly, glancing towards Dean, who was a tasty sight in a white tshirt and jeans, with a white apron wrapped around his middle and a baseball cap turned backwards on his head).   Sam had noticed these tables of girls since Dean had started working at the diner (and Rhonda, Patricia and Shelley had noticed them too – called the phenomenon Dean’s fan club – they thought it was hilarious, and Shelley didn’t mind the extra business, of course).  He ducked under the counter to stand beside Dean, watching as his brother competently managed several sizzling orders at once, all of them distinguished by their generous size and high fat content.

“How’s it goin?” Sam asked.

“Good,” Dean said.  Flipped a burger.  “You?”

“Good.  Jackson here?”

“Nope, not yet.”  Dean turned and pulled a basket of sizzling fries from the deep fryer and tossed them onto a metal sheet.

“Okay, I’ll just get started then.”  (Sam had been offered some hours at the diner as a busboy and dishwasher – Jackson had set this up actually – washing dishes in the diner had been Jackson’s after school job since forever, and he’d asked his parents if Sam could help out too.  Shelley and Cal had agreed easily – Sam was hanging out there a lot anyway –and eating- and it was great to have Jackson’s tutor so handy).  So Sam had started pitching in, earning a bit of cash –not much, but _something-_ and giving Jackson incentive to hit the books –Jackson sitting at a counter near the sink in the back room, studying under Sam’s supervisory eye.  So between Dean spelling off for Cal (the diner had been short staffed for awhile after the other cook Norm, had gotten sick suddenly and quit) and Sam lending an extra pair of hands in the back (not to mention Jackson’s dramatically improved grades), the diner – and the Shelley/Cal/Jackson family unit - were both in good shape.  Shelley called Sam and Dean her godsends (once she’d described to Dean –in Sam’s hearing- how that extra bit of private time with Cal in the afternoons was good for their marriage.  Dean had looked uncomfortable.  Sam had grinned).

“Okay.”  Dean cracked two eggs onto the grill.  Slid a piece of toast into the toaster.

“Dean, two bacon mushroom burgers and a side of onion rings, table 4.”  Rhonda handed Dean a yellow slip.  Dean took it from her and tacked it up with the row of others.  “Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” Rhonda winked at him (she was over her shyness with Dean by now).  Dean looked at her then gave her one of his patented Dean smiles.  Rhonda stood still, momentarily dazzled  (Sam rolled his eyes).

Dean flipped the eggs over and then the burger.  Added two more burgers to the grill, with bacon strips beside them and a handful of chopped mushrooms.  Put some onion rings into the deep fry basket and plunged it sizzling into the hot oil.

Sam watching this, amused.  “Who’d’ve thought all that pick up cookin you did for Dad ‘n’ me would turn into a payin career,” he teased.

“Fuck off Sammy,” Dean replied grouchily.  “And it’s not my _career,”_ he added.  Flipped the eggs onto a plate and the first burger onto a bun.  “This is just a temporary break from huntin.  For _you._   Remember? _”_

“I know,” Sam said contritely.  But then he moved a little closer to his brother.  “I just want you to know…” he lowered his voice, “I think you’re wicked hot.  Just like everyone else.”  Dean looked at him, the grill momentarily forgotten.

Sam winked at him (hey, if Rhonda could do it…) and said, casually, “I’ve got somethin for you.”  Then he turned and strolled through the door to the back.

In five minutes Dean was there, closing the door behind him.  Sam was at the sink sudsing up a tub of dirty plates, also in tshirt and jeans, with his own apron wrapped around his middle and his hair tied back under a cotton bandana.  “What?” Dean asked.

Sam looked up, smiled at him.  “Walkin off the job?”

“Grill’s caught up,” Dean said.  “Next table c’n wait a minute.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Good.”  Looking Dean in the eye, he untied his wet apron and pulled it off.  Then turned and headed towards the pantry.  Heard Dean mutter, _“Sammy…”_    sounding exasperated.  But his brother was right behind him.  Sam opened the pantry door, walked into the pitch black little room.  He didn’t turn on the light. 

Dean on his heels.  “Sammy-“

“Close the door,” Sam said softly.

Dean closed the door.  “This isn’t smart.”  His voice, in the dark.

“Nope,” Sam said.  His arms were around Dean.  “Sure isn’t,” he said against Dean’s mouth.

“Mmmph, Sammy,” Dean muttered.  But his arms were wrapped around Sam’s waist.  He backed Sam up against the closed door.

Sam kissed him intently, his hands stroking Dean’s sides.  He felt Dean lean into him, fitting himself between Sam’s legs.  “What’s this for?” Dean asked him.

Sam smiled against his brother’s lips.  “Thought I’d give you a raincheck.”

Dean, kissing him.  “For what?”

Sam smiled.  “Whatever you want,” he murmured.  “For later, when we get home.”  He thrust his hips forward, rubbing against Dean’s cock, a hard bulge now, pressing exquisitely between Sam’s legs.  Heard Dean hiss.  “So what do you want me to do for you?” Sam whispered.  “Later?”  Nibbling at Dean’s mouth.  “Tell me all about it,” Sam whispered.

Dean was kissing him.  “I want you to suck my cock,” he whispered back.  “But first, I want you to sit on my lap.  In your...pajamas.”

Sam nuzzled into his mouth.  “Okay, daddy,” he said softly.  He felt Dean shudder.  Sam smiled at this.  “I’ll be your little boy,” he whispered.  Then he leaned forward.  Found Dean’s earlobe, nibbled on it.  “And maybe…your little girl too,” he whispered into Dean’s ear.  Kissed the soft skin beneath Dean’s ear.   “What about those new panties you like so much?” he whispered.  “The red ones.  I’ll put those on instead.”  He felt Dean’s immediate response, those hard muscles tightening against him.  “Crawl into your lap, wearin those…” Sam whispered, “crawl over your knee…" 

“Yeah…” Dean breathed.  His hands had found Sam’s butt, cupping it.  Sam wriggled his butt gently.  Rubbed himself back and forth.  “You won’t be too hard on me will you Dean?” he whispered. “If I put those panties on?”

“Depends,” Dean whispered back.  He was pressed very close against Sam now, pushing up between Sam’s legs.  “Have you been good?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He slipped a hand between their bodies, burrowing into Dean's clothes, found the bulge of Dean’s cock, gripped it firmly.  Dean made a soft sound of pleasure.  “I’ve been real good, daddy,” Sam whispered to him.  Dean shuddered.  Then pushed his cock hard against Sam's hand.  Sam smiled.  “Just need a little reminder is all,” Sam murmured to him, “of who my daddy is.”  His fingers, curling around that hard bulge.  Then stroking it, lightly.

“God,” Dean muttered against Sam’s mouth.  “You little _tease.”_   His hands were under Sam’s tshirt, running over the bare skin of Sam’s back.  Sam smiled again.  Started nibbling at Dean's throat, mouthing the warm, bristly skin there.  Dean's breath, hissing.  “’N’ when you’re done warmin me up…” Sam whispered against Dean's throat, “you’ll put me on my knees…in front of you, suckin your cock…for as long as you say…”

“Yeah…” Dean agreed.  His hands were back on Sam’s ass, fingers digging into the tingling flesh.  Sam wriggled.  He released Dean's cock, putting his hands on Dean's hips.  Then rubbed himself thoroughly between Dean's legs, rocking up against him.

“You’ll be pullin my hair,” Sam whispered to him.  “Telling me when it’s time to use my tongue…” Dean’s hand came up and pulled hard on Sam’s hair, yanking his head back.  “Like _that?_ ” he asked roughly.  

Sam gasped softly.  Then he leaned into Dean, nuzzling into Dean’s mouth.  “Like that,” he agreed.  “Tellin me to lick you…”  He licked Dean’s lips, feeling the warm brush of his brother’s breath.  “Or tickle you…” He curled his tongue delicately into Dean’s mouth, stroking it.  Dean gasped, then pressed hard against him, still holding Sam’s head tightly back by his hair.  He put his own tongue into Sam’s mouth.  Sam sucked on it lightly then slipped a hand on top of Dean's cock again, cupping Dean luxuriously between his legs, Dean’s cock a warm, heavy weight against his palm.  “You’ll be playin me like a guitar…” Sam whispered.  And palming Dean’s cock, his thumb, stroking.  “Yankin on my hair when it’s time for me to suck deep…”

 _“Sammy,”_ Dean said.  He’d released Sam’s hair, now holding Sam’s face between his hands.  Kissing Sam intently, nuzzling him.

“Yes daddy?” Sam whispered under Dean’s mouth and Dean shuddered.  Sam smiled.  He knew what Dean liked alright, he’d sat with Dean through a million porn flicks, his hand between his brother’s legs (or sometimes with his face, buried in Dean’s crotch).  He knew what got Dean going, alright.

He pushed Dean away. 

“We gotta stop,” Sam said.  “Jackson’ll be here any minute.  And Rhonda’ll be wonderin where you are.”

Dean took a deep breath.  Stood there a moment.  Then he leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of Sam.  Laid his head heavily on Sam’s chest.  “God,” he said, “what’d you do _that_ for, Sammy?  Jesus.  Torturin me.”  His warm head, pressed against Sam, Sam’s heart thumping.

“Raincheck,” Sam said cheerfully.  “You c’n get the rest from me later.”

Heard Dean’s pained snort of laughter.  “Oh I will,” he said.  “I’ll get it from you _good.”_

“Okay daddy,” Sam murmured to him.  He heard Dean laugh again, breathlessly.  “Brat,” he muttered.  But then his mouth was on Sam’s throat.

Sam pushed him away again.  But then leaned forward, found Dean’s lips in the dark.  Kissed him, tenderly.  Then he turned.  Opened the pantry door, light flooding in.  Sam blinked, then made his way back to the sink, picking up his apron and tying it around his waist.  Just in time.  The door to the front room opened and Jackson strolled in, a stocky kid with an open, friendly face and short blond hair, his knapsack over his shoulder.  “Hey,” Jackson said.

“Hey,” said Sam.  He was washing dishes enthusiastically.

“Where’s Dean?” Jackson said.  “Rhonda’s lookin for him.”

“Right here,” Dean said.  He was standing in the open pantry door, a jar of pickles in one hand.  Turned the pantry’s light off.   “Gettin these, just had to use the john first.”

Jackson glanced at him.  “Okay,” he said without interest.  Turned back to Sam.  “I’ve got this stupid chemistry quiz tomorrow.  You’ll help me?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Get your handouts and we’ll go over the formulas.  Once you’ve got them down you c’n take over the dishes and I’ll do _my_ homework.”  Dean had gone back to the grill, leaving the door between the front and back rooms open.  Sam didn’t look up to see him go.

Jackson sat himself down on a stool beside the counter.  “Okay,” he said happily.

Sam wiped a soapy sponge over a greasy plate.  “So tell me the formula for oxygen,” he said.  He heard Dean’s voice from the other room, calling out, "Rhonda, Table 5's good to go," and Rhonda answering him.  Sam smiled.  His brother’s voice, just a few feet away.  That voice, which Sam felt like a warm flame licking through his body, warming him, lighting him up. 

The sound of Dean’s calm, capable voice.  Dean making this calm life for Sam, allowing Sam to have it, even if only for a little while.

Dean, his brother, and him.  The two of them, here.

Together.  Just being together, like this.

_(Take care of yourself)_

Aaron’s voice, desolate.

Sam appreciated Dean, alright.  And he’d show his brother just how much, later.

Sam finished wiping down the plate.  Rinsed it. 

“Go on,” he said to Jackson.  “Tell me the formula.”  He smiled.  He felt pretty happy too.

But the next Saturday.

“I want to come see you,” Aaron said.

“What?”  Sam was caught off guard.  They’d been talking about Aaron’s last wrestling practice (and Aaron grumbling about his coach…Sam hadn’t talked with him recently without Aaron grumbling about his coach, who sounded like a class A dick). 

“Next weekend,” Aaron said.  “I can drive up.  You’re not _that_ far away.”

Oh.  Uh-oh.

“Um…I dunno,” Sam said.

“I’ll come Friday night,” Aaron said.  “Drive straight up, after school.”

“…Your folks’ll let you?” Sam asked, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  “My mom pretty much lets me do what I want.  And my dad’s not in town – he’s out in Arizona for like, weeks.  Next time I see him is Memorial Day weekend.”

“Uh…where’re you gonna stay?” Sam asked.

“With you guys,” Aaron said.  “Dean won’t care, will he?  After all, I did him a major solid.”

“Um…wouldn’t _you_ care?” Sam asked him.  He was thinking frantically.  This was such a _bad_ idea, and Aaron clueless of course about just how bad.  How to head him off?

“No,” Aaron said.  “I don’t care about Dean.”

Silence.

“I c-…I just want to see you,” Aaron said.  “That’s all.”

Silence.

“Um…” Sam said.

“Or if you think it’ll be weird I can always stay at a hotel,” Aaron said. 

“Isn’t that expensive?” Sam asked, weakly.

Aaron laughed.  “Who cares?” he said.  “I’ve had my own credit card since I started driving.  My dad pays it down every month, doesn’t even look at the bill, has his secretary do it.  I know because I charged a phone sex call to it once just to see what would happen and…nothing did.  They’re not going to blink at a hotel charge.  I c’n even get Marian to book it for me.  She’s my dad’s secretary.  I speak to her more than I speak to him.”

“Um…next weekend’s not good for me,” Sam said.  “Doin a double shift at the diner.”

“Okay, so how about the weekend after that?” Aaron asked.

“Um…”

“I want to see you Sam,” Aaron said.  “So just tell me when.”

Shit.  This was not good.

“Why do you want to see me, all of a sudden?” Sam asked.

“It’s not all of a sudden,” Aaron said.  “It’s time.”  His voice dropped.  “There’s stuff we need to figure out.  Remember?”

Silence.

“I want to talk to you about it,” Aaron said.  “But not over the phone.”

Oh.    

“…Why not over the phone?” Sam asked.  “Rather than you drivin all this way.”

Aaron laughed.  “Sam,” he said.  “I don’t want that.  I want to see you.”

Silence.

“You said to me…`I do what I want,’” Aaron continued, after moment.  “Remember?”

“...Yeah…” Sam replied.

“Well that’s what I want,” Aaron said.  “So tell me when.”

“Aaron, I…it’s not a good idea,” Sam said. 

“Why not?”

“Dean wouldn’t understand,” Sam said.

“What does it have to do with him?” Aaron asked.

“He…he doesn’t know…any of that,” Sam said.  “About me.  You know?  And if he found out, he’d be real pissed.”

“He doesn’t have to know anything,” Aaron said.  “I’m just your bud, who you haven’t seen in awhile.  That’s all.”

“Um…”

“Sam,” Aaron said.  His tone was intense, suddenly.  “I’m coming down.  It’s time we…figured this out.  Don’t worry about Dean, as far as he’s concerned, I’m just a friend from your old school –and if you don’t want me staying with you guys I’ll just get Marian to book me into a hotel for the weekend.  What do you have around there?  Anything decent?”

“But…that’s the thing,” Sam said awkwardly.

“What?”

“That’s…all we are, Aaron,” Sam said.  “Friends.”

Silence.

“I thought you understood that,” Sam said.

“Why would I?”  Aaron asked him, after a moment. “That’s not what you said to me before.”

“…What did I say?” Sam asked him.

“You said you wanted more,” Aaron said.  “You were pretty clear about that.  When you climbed into my car.  Remember?”

 _Had_ he said that?

“Um…” Sam said.

“You came on to me pretty strong,” Aaron said.  “That time.”

Jesus.  So much for Aaron not talking about it _._   Sam wasn’t ready for this conversation.

“I didn’t come on to you,” he said weakly.

Aaron snorted.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You fucking did.”  He paused.  And then continued, in a quieter voice.  “And…I’ve been thinking about it.  Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes. 

“I want to do something about it,” Aaron said. 

“We can’t,” Sam said.  “We’re just friends, Aaron.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.

“So you were just… _fucking with me?”_ Aaron asked.  Now he sounded pissed.

“No…I…”

_“What?”_

“I got carried away,” Sam said lamely.  He felt shitty.  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Carried away,” Aaron repeated. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I really like you Aaron, don’t get me wrong.  But we’re just friends.”

“Friends.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“…Aaron?”

“I can’t…I just…”  Aaron’s voice was shaking. 

“Aaron,” Sam said, “I’m-”

“I gotta go,” Aaron said.

“Aaron!”

But Aaron had hung up.

Sam called him back.  But Aaron didn’t pick up.  After five rings, the phone went to voicemail.  Sam hung up without leaving a message.  He stood at the payphone booth, the phone in his hand.  He felt terrible.

He called Aaron again.  Listened, as the call rang through to voicemail.  Hung up.

Called again.  And listened to the phone, ringing.

On the fourth ring, Aaron picked up.  “What?”  His voice was cold.

“Guess you’re mad at me,” Sam said.  Aaron snorted.  “What do _you_ think?”

“Aaron, I’m sorry,” Sam said.  “I really like you, okay?”

“As a _friend.”_

“…Yeah…?” Sam replied, tentatively.

Aaron laughed.  “Huh.  You really _are_ a chick.”

Sam was stung.  “What does _that_ mean?”

“Coming on to me,” Aaron said.  “Getting me hot, and then saying you just want to be _friends,_ like what you did was no big deal.  That’s such a chick thing to do, Sam.”

That tone in Aaron’s voice, so familiar.

_(Sam, stop actin like such a goddamn girl, you’re drivin me nuts, Jesus)_

His dad, sounding exactly like that.

Sam was furious suddenly.  “Fuck you, Aaron!”

“Yeah.”  Aaron wasn’t laughing anymore.  “Fuck me,” he agreed, his voice bleak.  “I guess I’m good and fucked.  Goodbye Sam.”

Goodbye. 

“Aaron,” Sam said, “Wait-“

“…What?”

“I’m gonna call you again,” Sam said.  “Okay?  On Wednesday.  Like usual.”

“What’s the point?”  Aaron asked.  Now he sounded detached, almost distracted.  Eager to get off the phone and move on to the next thing.

Sam wasn’t having any of that.  All those conversations, with Sam standing here on the cold street.  Because Aaron had wanted him to call.  Pinning Sam down, every time.

And now, acting hard done by.  Like _Sam_ had done something wrong.

“What do you _mean,_ what’s the point?” he asked Aaron.  “Talkin.   _That’s_ the point.  Even about dumb stuff, like your stupid coach.”

“…I thought that stuff bored you,” Aaron replied.

“No,” Sam said.  He felt tears rising suddenly.  Shit.  He wasn’t going to _cry_ here, and have Aaron call him a chick about that too.  He wiped the tears away, angrily.  “It didn’t.”

Silence.

“I’m callin you Wednesday, Aaron.” Sam said.  His voice was harsh.  “Usual time.”

“Well, maybe I won’t pick up,” Aaron said.

Sam, furious.

“Yes you will,” he said.  “I’m callin you Wednesday and you’ll pick up.   And we’re going to talk about your fuckin coach.  Or your stupid SUV.  Or college football, for like the zillionth time.”

Silence.

“Sam,” Aaron said, eventually, _“What for?”_

What for.

“Just fuckin _pick up,_ Aaron!” Sam snapped at him.  Tears were running down his face now.  He wiped them away.  “Pick up!  When I call.”

Silence.  Sam felt his lips, trembling.

“…I’ll pick up,” Aaron answered, after a moment.

“You do that,” Sam said.  He was crying, in spite of himself.

Aaron didn’t answer.  But Sam could see him in his mind’s eye, Aaron standing silently, the cellphone pressed to his ear.  Listening to Sam’s ragged breathing.

“Me callin you…you asked me what’s the point,” Sam said.  Once his voice was back under control. 

“Yeah,” Aaron answered.

“I’m your _friend,”_ Sam said.  _“That’s_ the point.  _That’s_ why I’ve been callin you.  Listenin to whatever stupid shit you had to say.”

Silence.

“I thought you wanted that,” Sam said.

“I did,” Aaron said. “But-“

“-But that doesn’t mean I have to _fuck_ you,” Sam said viciously.  “That’s not automatically part of the deal.”

 _“…What?”_   Aaron asked.

“That’s what you figured right?” Sam said.  His chest was heaving again.  “Spend time with me, shoot the shit and I’ll just _fuck you._   Whenever you want.  Drive down, get a room on daddy’s credit card and I’ll just _show up,_ like a fuckin call girl.”

Silence.

“Um- ”  Aaron said.

“I’m not your _bitch,_ Aaron!” Sam shouted at him.  “So _fuck you!”_

“Sam…”  Aaron replied, after a moment.  “I never said…I mean…wow.  Where’d the fuck _that_ come from?”

But Sam was crying again.  He was furious at himself.  But he couldn’t stop.

“Are you _okay?”_ Aaron asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said, after a moment.  His nose was running.  He wiped it.  Took a breath.  “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry if I came across that way,” Aaron said.  “I didn’t mean to.”

“S’okay,” Sam said.  He felt drained.  He wiped a hand over his wet cheeks.  “I’m callin you,” he said.  He was exhausted now, and wanted to sit down.  “On Wednesday, like usual.  But I gotta go now.  Okay Aaron?  I’m out of change.”

“Um...okay,” Aaron said.  “Fine.”

“Good,” Sam said shortly.

“Sam…can I ask you something?” Aaron said.

“What?”

“Why do you always call me from a payphone?”  Aaron asked him.  “You have a cellphone, don’t you?   How come I don’t have your number?  I should be able to call _you,_ sometimes.”

“No,” Sam said.  “Dean pays for my phone and it’s…complicated, okay?  So no.  We keep on doing it this way.”

“…Okay,” Aaron said, after a moment.

Sam nodded, silently.  He held the phone to his ear, staring at the buildings, the parked cars, the quiet street, in this town where he and Dean had somehow ended up.  The lake, shining cold in the distance.

Aaron, speaking again.  “Are things…alright for you there, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “Things are- “ he felt his lips tremble again.  Pressed them tightly together.  Then the phone beeped.  “I have to go,” Sam said.  “I’m outa change.  I’ll call you Wednesday.”

“…Okay,” Aaron said.

“You pick up,” Sam said to him.

“I will,” Aaron said.

“Okay,” Sam said.  He took a breath.  “Bye.”

“Bye,” Aaron said, quietly.

Sam hung up.  Stood there, silently. 

Eventually shivered.  It was cold out here, a damp chill halfway between winter and spring.  Still snow. 

Sam struggled to organize his thoughts.  He had laundry to do.  And shopping.  And then finishing his homework at the library.  Going by the diner later, Dean would expect him for the dinner crowd.  And then pitching in with the dishes, hanging out there for awhile.  Leaving with Dean at the end of the night.  Driving through the dark night, to their little cabin in the woods.

Sam thought about this, the routines of his day, calmly unfolding.  Laundromat.  Groceries.  Library.  Diner.  Later.  A good day.  

He couldn't do it.  

Couldn’t take the next step.

His mind, jumping around helplessly.

Upset.  He was upset. 

This conversation had upset him.

But things were still good.  Things were okay.

Aaron had just _upset_ him that’s all, by being so determined to (ruin everything) visit Sam, and then getting stubborn and difficult when Sam had to make a few things clear (but hey, it’s not like Sam hadn’t had experience dealing with _that_ type of behaviour before).  But things were okay again, Sam had managed to save the situation. 

And Aaron and him were still talking. 

Aaron’s voice, on the other end of the line.  And Sam realizing now just how much he counted on it, being there.

_(You pick up)_

_(I will)_

Those dumb conversations.  Risky, in spite of Sam’s precautions.  And it’s not like Sam felt wonderful, calling Aaron behind Dean’s back.

But he needed those conversations, Sam understood that now, he wasn’t ready to let them go.  They were important to him for some reason.  Why?

Important.  Aaron knew something important about him.  Something critical. 

_(I don’t care about Dean)_

Dean.  

Okay, so maybe Aaron didn't know about _Dean_ (although clearly he'd picked up on something).  But Aaron knew something anyway.

He knew Sam had a secret.

_(Are things…alright for you?)_

And living with a secret…Aaron knew about that too.

_(Take care of yourself)_

Aaron knew the cost of that.  Unlike Dean. 

Sam stood there silently, suddenly flooded with pain.  Dean loved him, he knew.  But Dean didn't understand him.  

_(“I want to see you,” Aaron had said.)_

_(It’s time)_

No.  

Dean.  He had to think about Dean.  Figure this out, so he could look his brother in the eye.  Otherwise his day would stop here.  He’d stand forever on this street, staring at the payphone.

Aaron understood something important about him.  The cost to Sam, of living his life.  Aaron understood that, Sam heard it in his voice, every time they talked.  But Dean didn't.  

Dean didn't understand him.  And that hurt.

 _Dean_ didn’t mind having secrets.  Sam had noticed that about him.  The favourite son and trusted partner of a man who lived his life in the shadows, raised to uphold the hunters’ code first and foremost, breaking civilian law whenever it suited him…Dean was _proud_ of all that.  The hidden life of their family…it was a privilege for Dean, not a burden the way Sam found it.

And for years now, this other secret _._   Sam.  Dean wanting him, in love with him, _committed_ to him, Sam wearing Dean’s ring like a wife, and all under their dad’s nose, Dean lying to their dad without blinking an eye.  Dean, entering into this other, deeper secret, betraying his upbringing, betraying their _dad_ , and so calmly, with the practical, cold mind of a hunter.

No, secrets didn’t bother Dean.  He understood them more as logistical problems than anything else.

Secrets didn’t make Dean feel alone.  And after all, he had Sam.

Sam closed his eyes.  Upset, he was upset. 

No.  He was going to think this through and calm down.  If he was upset like this when he showed up at the diner, Dean would pick up on it immediately.

Dean didn't mind keeping secrets.  But Sam did.  He hated it.  He was _good_ at it (he’d been trained in the life, same as Dean, and Sam was smart).  But he hated it.  And Dean didn't understand that.  To keep secrets -it was necessary for a hunter, so what was Sam's problem?

But that was it.  Sam had no desire to hunt.  Not that he was scared of it.  He just…didn’t want to.  The thought of killing, even dark things...it gave Sam no pleasure. 

Sam thought about this.  Dean...he  _really_ didn't understand that.  For Dean (and other hunters, Dean not different here, it was _Sam_ who was different), it was all about the rush.  The rush, the incredible adrenaline high...of hunting the supernatural, going after those vicious, intelligent beings, ancient enemies of humanity, and defeating them in a fight to the death...that was the hunter’s _real_ reward, Sam understood that.  But not for him.  Sam didn't want his life revolving endlessly around death.  That wasn't a reward, for him.

That dark, secret life.  Sam wanted no part of it.  And Dean had never understood that.  He thought it was just a matter of Sam finally getting his hands wet.  That first kill.  Once Sam had done it, he would get it.  Dean was confident of that.

(And Sam didn't think it would be long now.  He didn't kid himself about that.  These last few months, without hunting, they'd been paradise, but his sixteenth birthday was coming up fast, and somehow Sam didn’t think their dad was going to forget about that, unlike Christmas.  Not with Dean taking this unprecedented sabbatical.  No, Sam was expecting their dad to show up on their doorstep any day now to reclaim Dean and he'd do that by telling Dean it was time they took Sam out.  Made a _real_ hunter out of him, finally).  

And what was Dean going to say?  He'd been training Sam to hunt his whole life.  

Sam didn't kid himself about that either.  When their dad came...Dean would be okay with it.  Dean wanted Sam to hunt.  He'd invested years of his life, getting Sam ready.  And he believed it was the right thing to do.  Sam born to it, same as him.

(And finally Sam to be Dean’s partner in this too, along with everything else, the final piece to make Dean's life complete, Sam finally taking his place as Dean's hunting partner-wife, his full partner in this life lived on the edge of darkness).  

Sam knew how badly Dean wanted that.

Wanting that, so badly.  And Dean not understanding how much Sam didn't want it.  

No, Sam didn't want it.  But he was doing it, anyway.  He was going to hunt.  Kill, when he had to.  He knew that when their dad came for him, he’d go.

Because he loved Dean.

Sam felt tears rising.  He loved Dean.  But there was a cost.

Sam thought about himself, separated from the life of a normal kid, disinterested in the life of a hunter, belonging nowhere. 

The cost.  Just Sam’s whole understanding of who he was. 

And Dean didn't understand that.  After all, _Dean_  knew who he was.  As far as Sam could see, Dean had _always_ known that.  And Dean had accepted it.  He was comfortable with it, more or less.  And even if he wasn’t comfortable with _everything,_ so what?  He’d accepted it.  It was just a matter of setting things up so they ran as smoothly as possible.  

And as far as Dean was concerned, that should be the same for Sam.  After all, Sam was with him.

Sam thought about this, how his brother had always assumed this, about him.

Sam confused about where he belonged?  Well he belonged with _Dean_ of course, by Dean’s side, in Dean’s bed (Dean just having to figure out how they’d work this without the state stepping in, or their dad…or other hunters going after them…or spirits trying to turn them…challenging sure, but he was up for it).  And Sam didn't know who he was?  Well Sam was _Dean’s,_ end of story.  Dean’s.  And that was  _all_ Sam needed to know.  Just follow Dean’s lead, Dean would take care of him and everything else.  It would all work itself out.

Dean had it figured out, alright.  And how was Sam supposed to tell him it wasn’t enough?

Sam stood on the cold street, staring bleakly out at the lake.

Dean didn't understand him.  He thought he did.  But he didn't.  

But how much did that matter, in the end?  Because Sam understood something about himself.

He was here.  He’d chosen this.  In spite of the cost.

_(So much of me, silent)_

The cost that Dean didn't see.

_(It’ll be enough.  I promise.  I promise you, Sammy.  It’ll be enough)_

Dean’s fierce voice, saying that.

Sam felt himself shaking.  Standing here, his thoughts sliding around helplessly, his whole body cold. 

Dean didn't see the cost.  And he couldn't, Sam had to keep it a secret.  Because Dean didn't understand.  And _making_ him understand...that would mean hurting the one person Sam loved above everything.  Hurting him beyond the point they could continue together, possibly.

_(I feel so alone.  You have no idea)_

That memory of Aaron’s desolate voice suddenly.  Aaron saying that to Sam, Dean watching.

To live with a secret.  

Aaron understood the cost of that.  

Sam took a breath.  He felt himself reaching out within his own mind.  Reaching out to grasp his thoughts, to put them in some sort of order. 

Sam wasn't alone.  He had Dean.

And Dean had him.

_(What was left of him, after the cost was paid)_

But no, that was enough.  It would be enough.

A cost to be paid, sure.  But not for nothing.

_(Dean's green eyes on him, darkening)_

For Dean, Sam would pay that cost.  And Dean would never know its full extent.  They'd be happy with what they had.  And things would be good between them.

And that would have to be okay.  It would be okay.  

He just needed to call Aaron on Wednesday.

Sam stood silently at the payphone.  Tears were on his cheeks but he wasn't upset any more.  He was calm now.  Ready to go on with his day.

He wiped the tears away.  Then bent to pick up the duffel bag of laundry, set down on the sidewalk by his feet.  Slung it over his shoulder and walked towards the laundromat.

Later, sitting on their bed, watching Dean.

Dean, his magnificent big brother, crouched in front of the wood stove, building them a new fire, his movements graceful and efficient, capable like always.  His dark blonde hair, glinting in the room’s dim overhead light.  Dean glanced back, smiled at him.  “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What you lookin at?”

Sam, gazing.  “You.”

Dean, gazing back.  Then turning to the stove, striking a match, lighting up a twist of newspaper.  Waiting until the fire caught.  Standing up, turning back to Sam, Sam still looking at him.

“Like what you see?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam replied. 

Dean smiled.  Then said, “Take off your shirt.”

Sam pulled his sweatshirt over his head and tossed it aside.  Watched Dean quietly, his hands in his lap.  Dean gestured to his tshirt.  “That too,” he said.

Sam pulled off his tshirt.

Dean came over to the bed.  Stood over Sam.  Sam looked up.  Dean smiled down at him.  “Hey Sammy,” he said.  Smiling at Sam, his eyes tender.

“Hey,” Sam whispered.

“You mine?” Dean asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said. 

“Say it to me,” Dean said softly.

“I’m yours,” Sam said.  He felt a sudden rush of emotion, tears rising again.

 _(Belonging to Dean, the cost.  But not without its rewards)._  Sam closed his eyes.

Opened them, looked up at Dean.  Dean gazing at him, his eyes soft. 

“I love lookin at you,” Dean said.  He reached down, ran a hand over Sam’s bare shoulder, trailing his fingers over Sam’s chest, his throat.  “I love your skin, Sammy.”  His hand was on Sam’s cheek.

Sam rubbed his cheek against Dean’s hand.  Turned his lips into Dean’s palm and kissed it.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  Then said, “Lay down.”  Sam lay back on the bed.  He stretched his arms out over his head the way he knew Dean liked.  Dean smiled at him then bent over Sam’s chest, drawing a nipple into his mouth.  Sucked on it, gently.  Sam made a soft sound in his throat. 

Dean released his nipple then kissed the other one.  Bit it lightly, his tongue coming out to flick against the sensitive tip.  Sam arched against him, seeking wordlessly for more.  Dean circled his nipple with his tongue, the sensation shooting straight into Sam’s cock.  Sam moaned.  Dean licked him again, taking his time, Sam shivering now under the touch of that warm, wet tongue.  He rolled his head, turning to hide his face against one of his outstretched arms. 

Dean, licking him.  But then he sat back.  Sam whimpered in protest and reached out, his hands coming up to grab Dean and pull him back down, to draw that skilled mouth back down onto him. 

Dean shook his head.  “No,” he said, smiling.  “Put your arms back where they were, Sammy.”  Sam hesitated, then reluctantly stretched his arms back over his head.  Blinked up at Dean pleadingly.

Dean, smiling at him.  “That’s it,” he said.  He moved suddenly, now crouching down at Sam’s feet.  Pulled off Sam’s runners, then his socks.  And then his hands were at Sam’s waist, undoing his belt.  “Lift up.”

Sam lifted his butt.  Dean pulled off his jeans and shorts, peeling them down Sam’s legs and tossing them to the floor.  Then he stood up again, looking down at Sam as he lay naked on the bed.

Sam gazing up.  The cool air on his naked cock.  “Like what you see?” Sam asked his brother.

Dean smiled.  “Yeah.”

His eyes, flicking over Sam’s cock.  Then back to Sam’s face, Dean watching Sam lying there obediently, arms stretched out over his head.  Dean’s expression changing as he took this in.

Sam, staring back at his brother.  “Are you mine too?” he asked.  And lying there, holding himself still.

Dean no longer smiling.  He regarded Sam steadily.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’m yours too.”

Sam, gazing up.  Seeing Dean’s eyes on his body, dark now. 

“All mine,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

Dean, standing there, staring.

Sam smiled.  Then he stretched himself lazily, arching his back, letting his fingers curl slowly into the mattress.  Blinked up at Dean through his lashes.  Watched his brother’s face, the effect of this, on him.

“Say it to me,” Sam said softly.  Watching.

“I’m all yours,” Dean whispered.  Sam smiled.  But then he stopped smiling, gazed up at Dean thoughtfully.

_(I’m all yours)_

The cost.  The payment, delivered and received.

Dean’s green eyes, fixed on him.

“Take off your shirt,” Sam said.


	39. Chapter 39

Making a life for Sam.

 _All_ of it, not just filling in the gaps that their dad mostly left for Dean to deal with like meals and getting Sam ready for school and making sure he kept up his training and buying him stuff (which was heartbreaking for a long time, their dad a real tightwad about any funds not delegated to weapons or whiskey, it wasn’t until _Dean_ started earning that they had money for anything extra for Sam, like new clothes).

And responsible for keeping Sam in line, yeah, that too.

And also responsible for heading off anything that could be…fatal maybe, Dean putting himself between Sam and their dad whenever they got into it, the two of them glaring at each other like enemies with identical black, rage filled eyes, and boy what a joy _that_ was, Dean _loved_ that particular job, Jesus.

Or dealing with their dad when he was drunk, Dean could have done without that too but too bad, _that_ job was all his, Sam useless at it, too scared when he was little (with those big frightened eyes fixed on Dean, silently begging him to _do_ something…) and later, Sam too pissed off, watching their dad coldly as he dreamed and muttered, Sam looking like he was thinking about the best place to stick a knife in.

So yeah, filling in the gaps.  Dean was good at it.  He was used to it.  Up to dealing with whatever, to keep their family going.  Keeping it together, for all of them. 

But now that it was just him and Sam, no dad looming over them like a mountain, casting a shadow over both of them but over Sam especially (and Sam thriving without the dark presence of their dad, Dean couldn’t help but see it, Sam _present_ suddenly, a _presence…_ taller, brighter, smiling, this long limbed, lanky gorgeous _person,_ suddenly, with his tousle of shining brown hair, his white teeth flashing in a smile, his weird colour, long lashed eyes sparkling), now that it was just him and Sam…

…it was a whole new kind of responsibility.

For one thing, Dean was the only breadwinner.   Not that their dad had kept them in clover, but he’d always kept a (generally crappy, leaking motel) roof over their heads, and kept all of them them fed (one way or the other, sometimes from a vending machine) and kept gas in the car, and he’d known how to do it too, the pool hustling, the credit card scams, and their family crashing with other hunters (like Bobby, or Pastor Jim) or with the occasional client (or when Dean and Sam were smaller, a girlfriend, once in a while), the clients trading room and board to Dean’s family for freedom from whatever supernatural piece of shit was bothering them and the girlfriend(s) trading a taste of domestic life for some of John’s attention (the girlfriends not realizing what a poor deal they were getting, with ninety percent of John’s mind preoccupied with his long revenge…until they _did_ eventually realize, and then it was the road again for Dean, Sammy and their dad, sometimes with Sam and Dean bundled into the Impala in the middle of the night, still in their pajamas, a tearful woman’s voice behind them, screaming at John to either stay or go).

But anyway, their dad had always managed, their family always independent (although Dean could still  remember the days when breakfast, lunch and dinner were bags of Doritos and Twizzlers that he’d pay for with change scavenged from their dad’s wallet, especially when Sammy was still a toddler, their dad barely moving some days, collapsed like a wounded bear in their family’s dim motel room, a bottle of Dewars clutched in one hand, the fridge or cooler empty of anything except ketchup).

And even after Dean started earning (and earning pretty damn good coin too), it was still the two of them, Dean and his dad, with Dean’s dad always somewhere, watching Dean’s back or scoping a joint out, setting things up for Dean to stroll in.

The two of them splitting the work and expenses, acting for their family (for Sammy, tucked up warm in his covers, waiting for Dean back at the motel).

It wasn’t easy and it was often pretty damn aggravating (Dean understood where Sam was coming from, with their dad, he did...he just didn’t _react_ like Sam), but it was still something.  It was him and his dad dealing with things together, not Dean alone.

But now, Dean really was alone. 

His dad had made that pretty clear, once Dean had made _it_ clear he wasn’t going to be hunting for awhile.  Taking some time off, letting Sam have a few months of stability.  The two of them not joining their dad as soon as he came to collect the Impala, like their dad had expected.

Their dad hadn’t been impressed.  Yelling at Dean over the phone.

“What do you _mean,_ you not comin with me?  I _told_ you, we’ve got this gig in Oregon and I was _countin_ on you Dean.”

“Sorry Dad, it’s important that Sammy and I stay here for a bit.”

“Important?  What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“It means _important,”_ Dean said _._   “For Sammy, Dad.  You know?”

His dad, snorting.  “For Sammy.  Figures.  First the two of you completely inconvenience me and put that last hunt in jeopardy over something to do with Sam, and you haven’t come clean with me on _that_ one Dean, but I _know_ it was something to do with him…and now this.  For Sam.  Again.  You need to get some perspective, son.”

Dean, angry now.  “I _have_ perspective, Dad.  My perspective is this is what’s good for Sammy right now.  Why do you have a problem with that?”

Silence.  Then his dad, sighing.  “I can’t win with you on this one, can I?  I don’t know why I even try.”

“It’ll be okay, Dad, c’mon,” Dean said.  “This thing in Oregon doesn’t sound so tough, you c’n manage it on your own or get Bobby to set you up with a temporary partner.  What about Lucas, you’ve hunted with him before.  He’s out west, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” his dad grunted.  “We just about killed each _other,_ last time, that stupid sonofabitch, always thinkin he’s right.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said.  “Forgot about that.  Well…er…maybe there’s someone else Bobby c’n recommend.  Thing is, it doesn’t _have_ to be me.”

“It _should_ be you though,” his dad said.  “It’s what you’re trained for Dean, what you _do_ , not wastin yourself on some minimum wage job because you’re babysittin a moody, smartass kid.”

“Who’s your son _too,_ Dad, Jesus!” Dean said, angry again.

His dad, sighing.  “Dean, I’m not gettin into this with you long distance.  Gotta couple things to wrap up here but I’m comin to pick up the Impala on Sunday.  I want you boys packed and ready to go.  We c’n set Sammy up in school as soon as we get to Oregon, can’t see it makin a difference to him whether it’s there or in Wisconsin.”

“We’re not goin with you, Dad,” Dean said quietly.  “I’m sorry.”

“Why _not?_ ” his dad asked, his voice rising.

“Because I promised Sam,” Dean said.  “And I’m not breakin that promise.  We’ve broken too many promises to him, Dad, over the years.”

 _“You_ have, maybe,” his dad said.  _“I_ never promised Sam anythin but he what he got from me, Dean.”

“Which wasn’t _shit!”_ Dean yelled, suddenly.  His chest was heaving.

“…Are you disrespectin me, son?”  Dean’s dad’s voice was cold.

Dean, breathing hard.  “No sir,” he said, eventually.  “I’m sorry.”

“The tools of survival,” his dad said.  _“That’s_ what Sam’s got from me.  Just like you have.  Sam just hasn’t figured it out yet.  Too busy feelin sorry for himself.  And pullin you down, right along with him.”

“Sam doesn’t pull me down,” Dean said.

His dad sighed again.  “Whatever,” he said.  “I’m comin Sunday, so make sure the two of you are packed.  We c’n talk about anythin else needs talkin about on the road.”

“We’re not comin with you,” Dean said.  “You haven’t been listenin Dad.  My mind is made up here.  I want to give Sammy the rest of his school year in one place, and that’s that.”

Silence.  And when his dad spoke again, Dean heard the frustrated anger in his voice.  “You gonna be stubborn about this son?  Fine.  But if you’re so set on stayin…you have to be out of the safehouse as soon as I arrive.  My contact’s already done us a favour, lettin you boys stay there as long as you have.”

Dean hadn’t anticipated that.  “Uh…Dad…you sure we can’t stay on?” he asked.  “The thing is Sammy likes – we really like this place.  No one around to bother us, and it’s warded really good.  Secure here, better than stayin in a motel.  Just need to get us some wheels is all, and I can probably manage that cheap.  Don’t you think you c’n square it with your buddy to let us stay?  I’ll pay rent.”

His dad laughed.  “Rent.  Got it all figured out, haven’t you son?”

“I’ve been payin my way since I was sixteen!” Dean replied, stung.  “So yeah, I guess I’ve got it figured out.  I’m not askin for a free ride from anyone, Dad.  Just askin if we c’n stay, that’s all.  And pay a fair rent.”

His dad snorted.  “You’ve been contributin, not payin your way,” he said.  “You’ll notice the difference, soon enough.  Because I’m not givin you or Sammy a dime.  You’re so set on doin this?  You’re doin it on your own.”

Dean, furious now.  “Fine!” he snapped.  “Not like I was expectin anythin else, from you.  All I’m askin is for you to ask your friend if we c’n stay here.  But if _that’s_ too much for you, just give me his name and _I’ll_ ask him.”

“My _contact_ is not goin to disclose himself to you,” Dean’s dad said coldly.  “He lets hunters keep a safehouse on his land because he owes us a debt…but it’s not like he’s happy about it.  And he wouldn’t take kindly to havin a couple of snot nosed kids set up housekeepin there, even if they _are_ my sons.  You’ve gotta be outa there, right after I arrive.”

His dad, not giving an inch.  What a surprise.  “Okay,” Dean said.  His stomach was hurting.  “That’s how you want it?  Fine.  We’ll be outa here by _tomorrow._   Drive the Impala into town ‘n’ leave it at the Exxon station by the highway.  You c’n pick it up there.”

“…Where will you be?” his dad asked him.

“Sammy ‘n’ me will be on a bus by the time you get here,” Dean said.  “And I don’t know where to.  I’m gonna leave that up to _Sam._   _He_ c’n pick the town where he wants to finish school in.”

His dad, quiet.  Then he said, “Maybe you c’n go to Bobby’s.  He’ll take you.”

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna leave it up to Sam, like I said.”

“You leave it up to Sam,” his dad said, “you’re not goin to Bobby’s.  _Sam’s_ gonna want to get as far away from the huntin life as possible, you _know_ that, Dean.  You’re gonna end up in _California.”_

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “Set up in San Fran _cisco,”_ he added.

“Jesus,” his dad muttered.

Dean laughed.  He was starting to feel good, actually.  Sam and him, on the road, destination as yet unknown.  Sam, poring over a map, that Sammy-brain working.  Selecting a place for himself, the little genius.  Turning to Dean, his eyes sparkling.  Dean could see it.

“Alright,” his dad said.  He sighed.  “Fine.  I’ll speak to my contact.  Or get Bobby to speak to him rather, he’s more Bobby’s contact than mine.  Bobby c’n tell him we need to stash you boys in a safe place for a few months.  I don’t think he’ll mind, havin Bobby owe him a favour.”

“It’s not a favour,” Dean said.  “I’ll pay him rent, like I said.  Just tell me how to get it to him.”

His dad laughed.  “He’s not gonna accept money from you,” he said.  “Doesn’t need it either, as far as I can see.  Nah…it’s gonna be somethin else.  But we’ll deal with it at the time.  Anyways, I guess it’s not such a bad thing, havin you boys in a place where we c’n keep a…where we already know it’s safe.”

“I don’t need babysitting, Dad!” Dean said, annoyed.

“Dean, you’re one tough kid,” his dad said.  “And as hard headed as they come, I think the only one who beats you out _that_ way is your brother.  But you’re still a kid, even if you don’t think you are.”

“I’m no kid, Dad,” Dean said coldly.  “So don’t treat me like one.  I’ve been a man for awhile.”

“I’m not gonna argue anymore,” his dad said.  “This call’s gettin expensive.  I’ll see you Sunday.   You better find yourself a set of wheels before then, or you’ll be stranded up there.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I will.  See you Sunday.”  He hung up.  Looked at his watch.  Sammy still at the library, he’d be okay there for a few hours.  Dean had some time to look for a job.  And a car.  He’d noted a combination gas station, autobody shop and used car lot on the way into town, not fancy at all but reasonably neat, with a set of pumps (no-name gas), a garage with several bays, and a lot holding a couple dozen used cars with cardboard for-sale signs in their windshields and tinsel fluttering overhead.  M P Auto and Gas.  He got into the Impala and drove back to M P’s.

And returned the next day, cash in his pocket to purchase the car he’d selected, and for further negotiation with the lot’s owner, who’d told Dean (after Dean had asked for a job and offered to work off his first couple of paychecks in trade for a car) that, if Dean _wasn’t_ going to give up the _Impala_ (and the fine shape of _that_ vehicle acting as Dean’s resume –he’d spent an hour demonstrating the in’s and out’s of the family baby to the owner, the man’s eyes on him, brightening)…that if Dean came back with cash, the owner would give him a good deal on the car of his choice and _possibly_ discuss the possibility of a job (which would be for minimum wage of course – Dean not a licensed mechanic…or even with a highschool diploma).

So Dean had taken himself off that evening, over Sammy’s protests, to find himself a roadhouse and a mark or two to play pool with. 

The next day, Dean parking the Impala in front of the little building beside the garage, climbing out.   But before he could go inside the owner appeared and walked over to him. 

“Got the cash,” Dean said.  “I’ll take that one, over there.”  Pointed to a 1982 Chevrolet Caprice, rusting quietly at the far end of the lot ($1200 including tax).  “You just let me drive it around first, make sure it won’t die on me.” 

“Show me the money,” the owner said, his eyes on Dean.  Dean pulled out the wad of cash from his pocket.  Waved it under the owner’s nose.  “Thousand, right here,” he said.  “’N’ that’s all I’m payin.  Now you’re gonna let me test drive that rusty bastard or what?”

Later, Dean pocketing the keys.  “I have to leave it here couple days,” he said.  “Come back Sunday to pick it up and I’d like to work on it, in the meantime.  Tweak a few things.  C’n I use one of your bays?”

“Cost you extra,” the owner said. 

Dean snorted.  “C’mon man,” he said.  “You know I’m good with cars.  Gimme a job here.  I’m better than any yahoo gas monkey and I’ll work cheap.  Use of the bay c’n come out of my paycheque.”

The owner, looking at him.  “Quite a shiner,” he said mildly.  “You didn’t have that yesterday.”

Dean shrugged.

“How’d you come up with that cash so fast?” the owner asked him.  “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re askin,” Dean said.  “I earned it.”

“How?” the owner asked.

“Pool game,” Dean said.

The owner, staring thoughtfully at Dean’s black eye (which hurt like a bitch, Sam had put ice on him again this morning but it still felt like crap).  The owner smiled, suddenly.  “Went over to Ricky’s, huh.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Rough place,” the owner said.

Dean shrugged again.  “I’ve seen worse.”

“You must be a pretty good…pool player,” the owner said.  “Score like that.”

Dean looking at him steadily.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I am.”

The owner, smiling at him.  Then he said, “Okay kid…I’ll give you a shot.  You c’n start right now if you like.  I’ll get you a pair of coveralls.  Put those against your pay too.”

“Can’t right now,” Dean said.  “Got an errand to run this afternoon (he had an appointment with the town highschool to re-enrol Sam).  “But I c’n start tomorrow.  What time do you want me in?”

“Seven a.m.,” the owner said.  “Show you a few things before we open.”

Dean sighed.  “Seven,” he said.  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Pick us up a couple coffees on your way in,” the owner said.  “I have a machine here, but nothin beats Cal’s coffee in the mornin.  I take mine black, with two sugars.  You’ll see Cal’s Diner, back on Main Street.  I’ll pay you back, once you get here.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “Fine.”  He hesitated.  Then said, “I could use an advance.  For food ‘n’ stuff.  C’n I take back one hundred?  Tide me over.”

The owner looked at him, considering.  “Why don’t you just find yourself another game?” he asked.  “If you’re so short on cash.  Go back to Ricky’s.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I don’t think I c’n go back there anytime soon.”

“No, huh?” the owner smiled at him again.  Dean gazed back without saying anything.

The owner shrugged.  Then reached into his pocket.  “Okay kid, here you go.”  He peeled off two twenties from the wad of cash Dean had given him and handed them back.  “That’ll be more than enough to see you till Friday,” he said.  “Friday’s payday, here.  And I’ll even let you park your new car on my lot, for a couple of days.”  Dean hesitated, then took the bills.  The owner held out his hand.  “I’m Phil, by the way.”

Dean shook his hand.  “Dean.”

Phil nodded.  “Winchester, right?  Like the gun.”

“Like the gun,” Dean agreed shortly. 

“You’re pretty far from Sioux Falls,” Phil said (Dean always provided Bobby’s house as his permanent address whenever he needed to sign anything, and it was on his driver’s license too).  “What’re you doing here?”

“Stayin here for a few months,” Dean said.  “Family responsibility.  Need a job for the time being.”

“Uh huh,” Phil said.  “Where you staying, Dean?  In town?”

“Nope,” Dean said.  “Gotta place out in the country.”

“Oh yeah?” Phil said.  “Where?”

Dean looked at him.  “Out a ways,” he said.

Phil shrugged.  “Okay,” he said.  “Whatever.  See you tomorrow.  Don’t be late.”

“I’m gonna need to work on the Chevy,” Dean reminded him.  “That piece of crap is gonna be my only wheels after Sunday.  I’ll be usin one of your bays.”  Phil nodded casually.  “What’s happenin to the Impala?” he asked.

“Someone’s pickin her up,” Dean said.

“Sell her to me,” Phil said.  “I’ll give you a good price for her.”

“She’s not mine to sell,” Dean said. 

“Too bad,” Phil said.  “She’s one sweet car.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He turned to go.  “See you tomorrow.”

“Seven a.m.,” Phil said.  “With coffee, or don’t bother showin up.  And we’ll see how the day goes.  If you’re worth the outlay.  You _might_ not be as good as you _think_ you are, Blondie.”  He smiled at Dean, like this was a joke.

Dean looked back at him.  Observed the older man, late forties maybe, clean shaven with short greying dark hair, about Dean’s height, a strong build under those loose coveralls, no sign of a middle aged gut.  Level dark eyes.   Large hands stained dark with grease, a wedding ring glinting dully.  And an expression on his face that Dean recognized suddenly, the look of a man used to risky situations.  Phil’s eyes, scanning his surroundings, quickly, automatically, before coming back to rest on Dean.  And now gazing at Dean calmly, those dark eyes assessing. 

Phil.  Phil, the asshole. 

“You start early,” Dean said to Phil.  He made his voice sound impressed.

Phil smiled.  Then shrugged.  “Yeah.  Gotta keep up the good fight.  You know.”

Dean looked at him.  Then smiled back.  He saw the other man’s eyes widen.  “Long hours,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Phil said.  Staring at Dean, his own smile fading.

“Nice place you got here,” Dean said to him.  “You had it long?”

“Almost twenty five years,” Phil said. 

“What were you doin before that?” Dean asked him.  Eyes on the older man.  “You weren’t always a mechanic.”

Phil looked surprised.  “I was in the army,” he said.  “1st Infrantry Division.  Went into business with my dad after I got out.  He’s retired now.”  Looked at Dean.  “You could tell?” he asked.  Raised his eyebrows.

Dean smiled.  “Yeah,” he said. 

Phil smiled back.  He looked somewhat embarrassed but pleased.

“You were in Vietnam?” Dean asked him.

“…Yeah,” Phil said, after a moment.  His smile had faded.

“Figured you for a combat vet,” Dean said.  And he was smiling slightly again, with this reserved, courteous smile, somewhat impersonal, but respectful. 

The smile of a younger man, giving respect to his elders. 

Except that on _Dean’s_ face, that smile was a lethal weapon.  Dean knew that. 

He saw Phil’s expression change.

“What do you mean?”  Phil asked him.  And Dean saw him now, waiting on Dean’s words.  Like they were important now, like those next words would define him.

The hook.  The bait.

“You have the look,” Dean said.  “I know it when I see it.  My dad was a marine.  He was at Khe Sanh.”

Phil’s eyes, on him.  “Was he.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “My dad, he-“ Dean smiled again, a bit distantly.  “He’s one tough sonofabitch,” Dean said.  And then his eyes went back to Phil again, turning a look on him, the same look he’d use on a mark when he was setting up a game.  A cool stare, one that said ‘ _so you really think you can take me, asshole?_ ’  And he saw its effect.  Yup, it still worked, even with the black eye.

“How long was he there?” Phil asked, after a moment.

“Two tours,” Dean said.  And looked at Phil, his expression polite again.  Respectful.

“…Me too,” Phil said. 

Dean nodded at this, like he wasn’t surprised.  Saw Phil, noticing this.

“Where _is_ your dad?” Phil asked.

“Out of town,” Dean said.  “Took off and left me ‘n’ my brother all on our lonesome.”

The dark eyes, on him.  “Sorry to hear that,” Phil said.

Dean smiled again, bravely now, the smile of a brave young man bearing up under a heavy load (not so far from the truth).  “Yeah, well…” he shrugged.  And then looked at Phil, like he was waiting to be dismissed.  Like they were done here, and Dean was just waiting for Phil to tell him he could go. 

Waiting, respectfully.  Phil blinked.  Then his eyes narrowed.  He didn’t say anything.

“…You got kids?” Dean asked after a moment, as if the man wasn’t staring at him now like Dean was prey.

“Yeah,” Phil said.  “Boy and a girl.”

“Still at home?” Dean asked.

“Heather is,” Phil said.  “Still in highschool.  Alec’s graduated.  He’s in the army.  At Fort Sill.”

“Didn’t want to become a mechanic, huh?” Dean said.  Phil laughed.  “Nah,” he said.  He was smiling at Dean again, his eyes warming up.  “Alec has big plans for himself.”

“Me too,” Dean said.  “Mine are keepin me ‘n’ my brother fed for the winter.”  He looked away briefly, his expression remote.  But then he looked back.  Met Phil’s gaze, his eyes direct now, present.

Phil, staring at him.  “Well…I guess I can help you with that,” he said softly.

And it was just the two of them now, watching each other.  Their surroundings dropping away, no longer relevant.  Just Dean and this man, silently taking each other’s measure.  Dean was familiar with this.  He gazed at Phil calmly.

“…You work with anyone else?” Dean asked him. 

“Yeah,” Phil said.  “Marv.  You’ll meet him tomorrow.  You’ll be workin under Marv, for the most part.”  He looked at Dean again, his expression normalizing.  “And just so we’re clear…as far as I’m concerned, you’re here to pump gas, run errands and clean the toilets.  Any cars you happen to touch are _Marv’s_ cars, understand?  Marv comes to me with any crap about you, you’re out on your ass.  Got it?” 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I got it.  You won’t have any trouble from me, sir.”

Phil stared. 

Dean smiled at the older man respectfully.  Observed the effect.  “I’ll see you tomorrow mornin,” he said.  “Bright ‘n early.   He let his smile warm up a couple of degrees.  “With coffee.”

And then he got back into the Impala.  Drove off, with Phil staring after him in the Impala’s rearview mirror.  The man standing frozen, like Dean’s words had just turned him into stone.  Dean smiled again, but to himself this time.  A tight smile, without humour. 

Take that, asshole.

Sammy was pretty impressed that Dean had managed to score both a car _and_ a job so quickly.  He stopped bitching about Dean’s black eye (especially after Dean reassured him that he wouldn’t be hustling again any time soon – Dean wasn’t about to say anything, but it _had_ been a close call, him surrounded by four pissed off dudes, just itching to get their hands on him, no dad waiting in the shadows, ready to walk up, gun in hand).  And their dad was impressed too, Dean could tell (not that their dad would ever _say_ he was impressed).  But he’d stayed an unexpected couple of days after coming to collect the Impala, him and Dean driving Dean’s new car over the back country roads, Dean’s dad checking under the Chevy’s hood, kicking the tires, pulling himself underneath it to have a look.  Eventually announcing that the car was in reasonable condition and Dean hadn’t been ripped off… _too_ much.  And not saying anything about Dean’s black eye either, just asking what the take had been.

“Thousand,” Dean said.  His dad grunted.

And before he’d left again, after telling Sammy to be good, listen to his brother and keep up his training, their dad had made sure the shack’s fridge was filled with groceries. 

“Thanks Dad, you didn’t have to,” Dean said.  He was standing with his dad beside the Impala, his dad about to drive off.  Sam had said his goodbyes already.  He’d stayed inside the shack.

“I know,” his dad said.  He clapped Dean on the shoulder.  “Okay son.  I’ll check in, once I’m set up.”  He was quiet for a moment.  Then said, “And Dean…don’t think you’re locked into this.  You c’n always change your mind.  Join me, anytime.”

“Thanks Dad, I appreciate that,” Dean said.  He didn’t say anything else.

“Bobby’s squared things away here,” his dad continued eventually.  “You boys’ll be left alone.  Just be…conservative, okay?”

“…What does that mean?” Dean asked, after a moment.

His dad looked at him.  “No parties,” he said.  “No girls over, that kind of thing.  This is still a safehouse, and we want it off the radar.  You ‘n’ Sam keep where you’re stayin to yourselves, got it?”

“Yeah Dad, got it,” Dean said.  “And…thanks.”

“Uh huh,” his dad said.  “There’s gonna be the occasional hunter in the area, checkin up on things.”  Dean blanched.  “Not on _you,”_ his dad continued.  “We keep an eye on the land, it’s part of our agreement with the owner and we’re just keepin to the routine.  No one’s makin a social call, so it’s not like you’ll see ‘em.  But I’m just lettin you know.”  He met Dean’s eyes. 

Dean looked back.  “I understand,” he said.  “I’ll tell Sammy too, so he’s not freaked out if he picks up the signs.”

“You do that,” his dad said. 

“What happened here?” Dean asked him.

His dad shrugged, looked away.  “Somethin bad,” he said.  “But it was a long time ago.  Before your time, before mine, even.  And it was handled, that’s all the details you need to know.  This is now probably one of the safest spots in the country.  But we still keep an eye, like agreed.”  

“I c’n help, maybe,” Dean said.

“No,” his dad said.  “You’re takin a break, you take a break.  You stay on here without me, you stay as a civilian.  I don’t want you gettin involved in anythin you don’t have to be.”  Dean shrugged.  “Okay,” he said.

“I’ll call you in a few days,” his dad said.  “Take care of yourself and your brother.”

“I will,” Dean said.  He was sad suddenly, to see his dad go.  “You take care of yourself too.”

His dad smiled at him, one of those brief, wintry, John smiles.  “I will, son.  Always do.”  He looked like he was about to say something else, but then just clapped Dean on the shoulder again.  Climbed into the Impala and drove off.

Dean stared after him, an ache in his chest.  His dad.  A cold bastard to practically everyone (including his younger son).  But he had his moments.

He wasn’t fooled though, he knew his dad would be on him, the next time Dean’s absence was inconvenient.  Yelling at Dean, his voice slurred with drink, pressuring Dean to pack Sammy up and join him.  And sure enough, a couple weeks later, that’s exactly what happened.  And his dad going nuclear when Dean made it clear he wasn’t changing his mind, calling Dean an ungrateful little shit.  Telling Dean not to bother calling him again, unless it was to say that him and Sam were packed up and on their way to join him at the hunt.  And Dean, furious and distressed, but not saying anything to Sammy (although his brother’s eyes were on him, worried – he knew _something_ was wrong). 

And Dean decided to take his dad at his word.  His dad, calling him a shit, Jesus.  Ordering Dean not to _bother_ him.  Let his dad cool off (and sober up).  And maybe…apologize (proving that miracles _did_ happen).

But his dad had never called him again.  He’d been in touch with Bobby, Dean eventually heard, so he knew their dad was alive.  But he didn’t call Dean.  Weeks, passing.  And their dad didn’t call on Christmas (or show up – and Dean had been kind of expecting him, he’d been on the edge of anticipation for days).  And he didn’t call on Dean’s birthday either (although Bobby had called, and mentioned John casually in conversation, so Dean knew his asshole father was still alive).

So, weeks then months with no contact from Dad.  Dean left alone, to support himself and his brother as best he could (and to manage Sammy, who was a handful at the best of times, but Dean was used to that).

Their dad’s sudden absence.  It was like him and Sammy were…operating out of a vacuum suddenly, strangely silent and weightless.  No dad to add dark substance to their days.  

But their dad’s  absence was a weight of another kind.  A reproach, a weight on Dean’s spirit, even if Dean didn’t say this to Sam (who didn’t feel the same way at _all,_ Sam acting like their dad going incommunicado was a fantastic holiday for both of them).

Their dad, the message he’d relayed to Dean, clear as day, even if silent. 

_(This is what you want?  This is what you get)_

So Dean, left alone to take care of his little family of two.  Breadwinner.  His dad had been right.  It wasn’t so easy, even if they weren’t paying rent (and Dean concerned about that…they were building up a debt to the mysterious owner of this land, and he wasn’t sure he liked that, and also having to impress on Sam that they couldn’t be…together, outside the shack’s walls, not even in the yard.  Who knew when a hunter might be in the area?  And Sam _definitely_ didn’t like that).

But anyway, with Dean not hustling pool anymore (Sam had begged him not to and Dean had agreed, to keep the peace), and no credit card scams available (those were pretty dependent on their family being mobile, and also, John was the master of those, not Dean), Sam and Dean relied on Dean’s income of $5.15 an hour, and it’s not like Dean was always able to get the hours.  And their car guzzled gas like a bitch.  And Sam _ate_ now, like there was no tomorrow, chomping his way through whole grocery bags of food, putting on height and muscle, their dad’s genes showing, finally.

So…money (not much of it).  No dad.  Sam being…himself, taking _full_ advantage of Dean’s more relaxed attitude towards him, Sam still checking in with Dean about the nature and location of his activities _(most_ of the time), but not waiting for Dean’s permission anymore, like he used to.  And of course, talking back to Dean, freely, especially without their dad around, expecting Dean to keep his little brother in line (but then of course, Sam had never been great at _not_ talking back, even when Dean had been punishing him for it). 

I mean, _negotiating_ with Sam.   Rather than just telling him to shut his mouth and do what he was told if he didn’t want a sore ass.  It was rather exhausting.  And no dad to back Dean up, either.

Their dad, say what you would about him, he was clear on what he wanted.  And he had no trouble communicating that either, especially to Dean and Sam.  Setting the day to day direction for their family without any messing around.  And no trouble being the bad guy, either, when he had to be -Sam and Dean expected, when it came down to it, to follow their dad’s orders with military precision (and their dad not scared about enforcing that either, with his voice, hand or belt).   And Dean, his dad’s lieutenant, for the hunts _and_ in their family’s daily life.  Dean’s role in that quite clear.  To carry out their dad’s orders.   To keep Sammy from aggravating him (as much as possible).  To watch out for John when he was drunk.   And to step up, if their dad needed help (with practical things, like cooking and shopping and laundry…and Sammy-care).  And Dean expected not to mind and he didn’t (too much).  It was an honour for him to do it.  Because it was all in support of the cause, the mission, the greater good.  The vengeance.  The hunt. 

But that was another thing. 

Without hunting, Dean was just another kid.  Another tough talking highschool dropout, prettier than most maybe, and capable, but still with no track record, no particular credentials, nothing to distinguish him in the eyes of regular folks (those soft assholes) except maybe being the guardian of _Sammy_ , that frighteningly gifted boy genius, amazing his teachers like usual.

Dean not a secret hero anymore.

And without hunting, Dean felt kind of…small.   Diminished.   Flat.  The landscape of the supernatural, that battlefield he’d grown up on, with its adrenaline edge of danger and its mysterious, merciless inhabitants…it was gone, suddenly.  Invisible.  Incommunicado.   Gone, like his dad. 

_(And this was a message from his dad too, Dean understood that)._

Without hunting, Dean just another clueless kid.  Trying to make his way, except in his case, it wasn’t just for him, but for Sam too.

A new kind of responsibility, being just a regular Joe. 

Dean wasn’t used to it.  And now left all alone, to do it.  No dad ordering him around, his dad aggravating as hell, sure, but he’d also watched Dean’s back.

Just Sam and him, all on their lonesome.  Not so easy (for _Dean,_ that is, Sam of course loving it).  And then, just before Christmas, things had fucked up.

Big time.

It had been coming.   Dean had picked up the perv vibe from Phil immediately (and he’d worked it too, Dean understood that, but not for any reason other than Phil had pissed him off).  But Dean had figured he could manage whatever he’d stirred up (like he managed those assholes during the pool hustling gigs) and anyways, a job fixing _cars_ …Dean had always wanted that.

So Dean settled himself in at M P Auto and Gas (the M standing for Myron, Phil’s dad).  Established a decent relationship with Marv, who respected Dean’s skills, as well as his matter-of-fact handling of all the shit jobs Phil gave him (like cleaning the toilets, Phil hadn’t been kidding about that). 

And Dean had started working on the cars (unofficially) almost immediately, quickly proving to Marv (and Phil) that he knew what he was doing.  And surprisingly, he’d proved a decent salesperson in the yard (again unofficially, it’s not like Phil was giving him _commission,_ exactly).  But shortly after he’d started, Dean had gone out to help a customer while Phil was in the john and he’d convinced them to buy a 1990 Ford Pinto (that _Dean_ had worked on, so he could vouch for it).  All Phil had to do, once he was back from doing his business, was complete the paperwork. 

So after that, Phil started sending Dean out whenever a potential customer showed up.  Dean would amble over to the guy (always guys, women didn’t shop for cars at M P’s, although sometimes they’d come with the men, looking like they’d rather be somewhere else…until _Dean_ appeared, that is) and stand with them respectfully, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.  Discuss their unique car situation.  Nod, thoughtfully.  Smile.  And soon enough, Phil was doing up another bill of sale.

Phil hadn’t said anything about this to Dean.  He’d never thanked him.  But he started giving Dean an extra bit of cash on top of his weekly paycheques.  And he’d started buying additional stock, cars to refurbish and put out on the lot.  Marv had noticed that too.  Told Dean it was because the cars were finally moving instead of sitting there, gathering dust and birdshit.  Phil never acknowledged this in so many words.  But one day mid December, with him and Dean standing in the lot together, watching a man drive off in a 1984 Dodge Caravan (the man had spent some time consulting with Dean  then walked into Phil’s office, with Phil already sitting at his desk, pen in hand). 

“That piece of shit you’re driving,” Phil said.

“Yeah?” Dean said.

“We’re gonna upgrade you,” Phil said.  “Some point.”

Dean looked at him.

Phil’s eyes were on a 1971 Pontiac Firebird, a recent acquisition (and a fine set of wheels, Dean had been eyeing it hungrily).  “Business keeps up like this,” Phil said, “you’ll be drivin that, come spring.”

Dean was smiling, he couldn’t help it.  “Yeah?” he said.

Phil glanced at him.  “Yeah,” he said.  He was smiling too.  Then he clapped Dean on the shoulder and went back to his office.

Maybe he wasn’t such an asshole, after all.

Dean found he was enjoying his job, surprisingly.  Civilian life had its good points, he could see that (not that he’d say this to _Sam_ , he didn’t want his brother’s hopes climbing into the stratosphere that this was a permanent thing).

But then.

Marv wasn’t around all the time.  He was down to part time hours (Marv was semi-retired now but a master mechanic, just as good as Bobby.  He’d been working at the garage since Phil’s dad’s days).  It meant long hours for Phil, but he was okay with that, business hadn’t been _that_ good lately.  But now with Dean’s way with customers…and his general ability to do a kick-ass job at every task Phil set out for him…Phil found he could give Dean more hours every week.

And Dean started to notice that whenever Marv wasn’t around…Phil was. 

Phil, making a point of being in the garage whenever Dean was there by himself.  Nominally working on his own job but with most of his attention on Dean, commenting on Dean’s work, attempting to instruct him (but you know…Dean knew what he was doing and after a teacher like Bobby –and Dean’s dad too, John also a skilled mechanic- well…Phil’s advice wasn’t all that necessary.  And Dean started to feel self conscious whenever he had to bend over an engine). 

Or Phil, wandering into the grimy little lunchroom when Dean was getting himself a coffee (Phil’s machine producing coffee like sludge, Dean could see why the Cal’s Diner coffees in the morning were such a tradition) and standing close to him, Dean stepping back casually.  Or Phil keeping Dean talking in his office after a sale, Phil leaning back expansively behind his desk, freshly signed paperwork in front of him. 

Or taking his time paying Dean out at the end of the week, handing Dean his (meagre) paycheck and then making Dean wait for his cash bonus, laying out the bills slowly on his desk while Dean stood there.

And Phil’s eyes on him, assessing.

Dean didn’t react to any of this.  Just tried to manage it, like he was used to from when he and his dad would hit a roadhouse.  He was polite, but didn’t smile at Phil anymore (not after those first, deliberate smiles that had left Phil staring at him, stunned).  And he spoke with Phil carefully, politely, never overly familiar, never volunteering information about himself he didn’t have to (although Phil knew about Sam of course, and he’d met him too, with Sam dropping by the garage sometimes, after school.  And to Phil’s credit, Dean’s weekly bonuses had started right after Phil had met Sam for the first time).

But there was something going on.  And eventually Dean couldn’t pretend he didn’t see it. 

Phil might be an older dude but he was still a retired combat vet and he’d done two tours of duty right at the height of the Vietnam war.  There was a hardened, somewhat dangerous quality about him that Dean recognized, from being around hunters all his life.  And Phil was in good shape for his age (not to the level of fitness of Dean’s _dad,_ but not bad either).  And he carried himself with the taut, self contained presence of a soldier and Dean had…noticed that. 

And Phil had noticed him noticing.  Dean could see it, in Phil’s eyes.

And Phil had noticed the same things about Dean too –he’d asked Dean, actually, if he’d had military training and Dean had said sort of, his dad had trained both him and his brother up like marines. 

Phil shrugged.   “Training’s one thing.  But goin up against the enemy…takin him out…and knowin that if you _don’t,_ that he’ll be the one doin that to _you_ …that’s another.  I told my boy Alec that, last time he got thinking he knew it all.”  He glanced at Dean, a slight smile on his lips.  “Mortal combat, kid.  Nothing replaces that.  Until you’ve been through it, you don’t know.  Guess your daddy’s told you the same thing.”

He and Dean were sitting across from each other in Phil’s office, over the paperwork from their latest sale (a 1985 Chevy Suburban).  Phil was leaning back in his chair, looking satisfied.

After a moment, Dean nodded.  “Yeah.  He has.”

“You not interested in becoming a marine?” Phil asked him.    

“Nah,” Dean said.  “Too much crap you have to put up with.  You know?   I’m more of a lone wolf.”

“Wolf _pup’s_ more like it,” Phil said.  He laughed.

Dean looked at him.  “And also, I’m lookin after my brother,” he said shortly.  “Can’t go off enlistin and leavin Sammy by himself.”

Phil looked serious now.  “Where _is_ your dad?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Dean said.  He didn’t say anything else. 

After a moment, Phil nodded.   Dean could see he had more questions about this but had decided not to push it.   

“Surprised you’re stickin around,” Phil said eventually.  “With no other family in the area.  Why don’t you just go back to Sioux Falls?”

“Sioux Falls isn’t really home,” Dean said.  “It’s more like…just an address.  It’s my uncle’s place and he ‘n’ my dad aren’t talking right now.  I don’t feel right about goin back there until they patch things up.  And anyway, Sammy likes it here.” 

“Uh huh,” Phil said.  He looked at Dean.  Dean looked back.  Then looked away.

“…And what about you?” Phil asked him.  “You like it here?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was staring over Phil’s shoulder now.  “It’s fine,” he said politely.  He was conscious of Phil’s eyes on him.  He didn’t look back.  Time to get out of here.

“You ‘n’ Sam are stayin here I guess,” Phil said.  “Over Christmas.  By yourselves?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m still hopin my dad will show.”

“You haven’t heard from him?” Phil asked.  “It’s only a couple more days.”

“No,” Dean said.  “But you know, he’s…like that.  He could still show up, out of the blue.”  He looked down at his hands.  There was a lump in his throat, suddenly.

His dad.  Dean missed him (in spite of everything).  He wanted their dad with him and Sam for Christmas.  He’d been waiting for him.

“You ‘n’ Sam could come to our place,” Phil said.  “We’d be glad to have you.  And you could meet the kids.  Alec will be home.”

That was nice of him.  Dean looked up, smiled at Phil briefly.  Then immediately regretted it, seeing Phil’s eyes on him, that dark gaze, intent now.  “Sammy ‘n’ me’ve got plans,” Dean said politely.  “But thanks anyways.”

“Sure,” Phil said.  “Let me know if you change your mind.  It’s not a problem for us, setting two more places at the table.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  He started to get up.

“You been to Ricky’s lately?” Phil asked.

Dean paused.  Phil was leaning back in his chair, watching him, smiling slightly. 

“No,” Dean replied shortly. 

“Not plannin to go back?” Phil asked him.  His voice was mild.

“No,” Dean said.

“Things got a bit rough for you there, huh,” Phil said.  His eyes on Dean, steady.

“Nothin I couldn’t handle,” Dean replied.  He stood up.  “I gotta get back,” he said.  “Ignition coil’s not gonna fix itself.”

“Sure,” Phil said.  Then said, “I’m guessin you can handle quite a bit, huh Dean?  I get that…about you.”  Looked at him.

Dean looked back.  He thought about staying polite about this, about pretending not to understand.  But then decided, ah, fuck it.  He let his gaze grow cold, the mild civilian expression he’d been wearing these days replaced suddenly with hunter’s eyes.  Phil not the only killer in the room.  He saw Phil’s expression change. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “More than you know.”  Then he turned and left, making his way back to the garage.  Phil didn’t follow him.

So Dean hoped that was the end of it.

Phil left him alone for the rest of the day.  And Marv was in the next day, with Dean sticking close to him, ignoring Phil as much as he could without being rude.

But the next day, Christmas Eve.   Marv not in and Phil closing up early.  Not opening again until Boxing Day (and they were having a sale, Dean had already put up the signs). 

Dean ready to go, his jacket on. 

“Dean,” Phil called to him.  “Come in here.”

Dean walked slowly to Phil’s office.  Phil was sitting behind his desk.  In front of him was a thin stack of cash, the top bill with a denomination of one hundred.  Dean observed this.  He stood in front of Phil quietly.

Phil gazed at him.  Then he fanned the bills out.  “Three hundred,” he said.  “Nice little Christmas bonus for you.  Buy Sammy a present.”

“Thanks,” Dean said.  Didn’t say anything else.

Phil’s eyes on him.  “Guess that doesn’t look like much to you,” he continued eventually.  “Not if you c’n pick up a thousand in one night, goin out to Ricky’s Roadhouse.”

Dean didn’t respond.

“What did you do,” Phil asked him, “to earn that black eye?”

“Hustled some guys at pool,” Dean said.  “They got pissed.”

“Pool, huh,” Phil said.  “You must be a real good player, Dean.”

“I told you I was good,” Dean said.

“How come you’re not doin it then?” Phil asked him.  “Why’re you workin here?”

“I don’t want to anymore,” Dean said.  “Want to be home in the evenings, not leave Sammy alone.”

“And not get any more black eyes,” Phil said. 

“No,” Dean said.  He stood there, quietly.

“Whyn’t you sit down,” Phil said.

“No,” Dean said.  “Thanks but…I gotta go.  Sammy’s expectin me.”

“Come over here first,” Phil said.  Dean stared.  Phil smiled.  Gestured to the bills in front of him.  “Take your bonus,” he said.

Dean thought about turning around and walking out.  But the three hundred.  He and Sammy could use it.  And also, if he walked now, would he have a job to come back to on Boxing Day?  He wasn’t sure how Phil would react, if Dean dissed him like that.  And he was still owed a paycheque for his hours from Monday, Tuesday and today.

He walked slowly over and halted on the other side of the desk.  Leaned forward to pick up the bills.  But Phil put his hand on them.  “That’s not what I meant,” he said.  Dean looked up.  “Come over to my side,” Phil said.

Dean stared at him.  Phil smiled.  “C’mon Dean,” he said softly.  “Come over here.”

Dean’s lips tightened.  After a moment he straightened up.  Then walked around the desk so that he was standing beside Phil’s chair. 

Phil, looking up at him smiling.  “Well hey there, kiddo,” he said softly.  His hand was still covering the bills. 

“Are you givin me the money or not?” Dean said.

Phil stopped smiling.  “That’s not too friendly,” he said.  “Where’s your manners, Blondie?”

Dean looked at him.  “What do _manners_ have to do with this?”

Phil, smiling again.  “Not much, I guess.”   Head tilted back, looking up at Dean’s face.  “So…what’re you doin here, kiddo?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I mean…standin here…because I asked you to,” Phil said.  Looking at him.

Dean stared back, silent.

“What else would you do…if I asked you to?”  Phil said.  

Dean didn’t answer.

“Would you suck my cock?” Phil asked him.   He was still smiling.

Dean stared at him.  So this was it, then.

“No,” Dean said. 

“No,” Phil repeated.   Smiled.  “Bet you’d be good at it.  You have that cock-suckin look about you, Blondie.  I’ve been looking at that mouth of yours.”

“Fuck off,” Dean said.

Phil smiled at him.  “You tellin me that all you did at Ricky’s was play pool?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That was it.  I’m good, I told you that.”

Phil nodded.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “That’s what you said.  So how come I don’t believe that _pool_ is what you’re talking about?”

“I dunno,” Dean said. 

“I think you do,” Phil said.  “You’ve been teasin me since day one, coming in to my shop, switchin that ass around…hottest piece of tail I’ve seen in my life.”  He wasn’t smiling now.  “Thought I was done with ass like yours, Blondie.  Once I came back here for good.  But I guess not.”

Dean stared at him.

Phil looked back.  Then he held out his other hand, the one that wasn’t resting on the money.   Gestured to Dean.  “Get that ass over here,” he said.  “You want that cash, you’re suckin my cock before you go.”

Dean didn’t move.  “You said that cash was a _Christmas_ bonus,” he said.  “You fuckin sacre _lig_ ious cheapskate.”

Phil looked surprised.  Then he grinned.  “You’re right,” he said.  “Guess I did say that.  Here you go.  Merry Christmas, Blondie.”  He picked up the three hundred dollar bills and held them out to Dean.  After a moment Dean reached out to take them. 

Phil didn’t release them.  “How much do you want?” he asked Dean.  “For an hour of premium time?  I’ll make it worth your while.”

Dean thought about tugging the bills out of Phil’s hand.  Then cold-cocking him one and leaving. 

No.  That was just asking for trouble.  He’d just leave, get the fuck out of here.  Find another job, somewhere.   Hustle pool again.  Sammy would understand.  Wouldn’t he?

Dean let go of the bills.  “I’m leavin,” he said.  “Keep your money.  And Merry fuckin Christmas to you too.”  He turned to go.

Phil was standing.  He stuffed the money into his pants pocket, then gripped Dean by the shoulders.  “No you’re not,” he said. 

Dean tensed, ready to spring at him.  “Get your hands off me asshole,” he said.  “Unless you want to get hurt.”

Phil laughed.  “You go ahead, Blondie,” he said.  “Take your best shot.  Then I charge you with assault, tell the cops I caught you trying to steal from the till.”

Dean stared. 

“Who you think they’ll believe?”  Phil asked him.  “Some drifter I hired out of charity…or me?”

Dean stood in Phil’s grip, motionless.

“Your fingerprints are all over those bills,” Phil said.

Dean stood there, staring at Phil, silent.  His mind flashed to Sammy.  He saw himself driving up to the shack, yelling to Sam to get his stuff together pronto.  Then the two of them hightailing it out of there, one step ahead of the police.  Making their way to their dad, or to Bobby’s, Dean’s tail firmly between his legs.  His dad would never let him hear the end of it.  And Sam yanked once again out of his routine, that he’d settled into so happily this time, so confident he could stay…and now _this_ happening to him, the day before _Christmas_ , for Chrissakes.

And after Dean had promised Sam he’d be safe, from all of that.  That Dean would make a life for him here.  Give Sammy this time, these months that his brother needed and deserved.

No. 

Phil wasn’t going to fucking ruin things.

“Okay,” Dean said to Phil.  He took a breath.  “Guess I’m not leavin after all.”

Phil stared at him.  Dean was conscious of those dark eyes, fixed intently on his face.   He smiled slightly, trying to look harmless (even though he was _super_ pissed).  Phil’s eyes widened.  Then narrowed.

“I _like_ this job,” Dean said.  “And I…like you.  I don’t want to have to leave.  Why’d you have to go ‘n’ _ruin_ things, Phil?”

He smiled again, as politely as possible.  Then shifted himself slightly, trying to move out from under Phil’s hands. 

Which tightened on him.  Dean tensed again.  But then he stood deliberately still.  Took another breath.  Looked up at Phil patiently.

Phil looked back.  “I’m not ruining things,” he said after a moment.   “I’m just getting ‘em started.”

“Oh yeah?”  Dean asked.  He looked at Phil calmly.  Expectantly, like he was waiting for a _reasonable_ explanation here, for Phil asking him to suck his cock. 

Phil’s eyes were on his mouth.  “Yeah,” he said roughly.   Then he said, “I’m serious, kid.  I’ve thought about this.”  And now _he_ sounded reasonable, strangely enough.  And slightly exasperated, like Dean should fucking see his point already.  He shook Dean’s shoulders slightly.

“What kind of things?” Dean asked.  He was curious now, in spite of himself.  This sounded a bit more involved than the propositions for quickies in washrooms or the cabbies of trucks that he was used to.  And…Phil had _thought_ about this?   With what, exactly?  His dick?  Dean smiled, suddenly.  That was funny.

Phil looked at him.  But then he smiled back.  Dean stared.  He hadn’t seen Phil look like _that_ before…friendly, open, a little bit rueful.    Phil looked years younger, suddenly.  And like a nice guy. Almost.

“Anything you want, Blondie,” Phil said.  He shook Dean slightly again.   “I”ll do what I gotta do.“  He sounded sincere.

Seriously?

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”  Dean asked him. 

Phil, looking at him.  “It means exactly what it means,” he said.  “Whatever I gotta do.   Then said, his face changing, “For you…anything.”  He wasn’t smiling now.

Dean remembered something suddenly.  Him saying something almost identical to Sam, back when they’d first got here. 

_(I’ll do whatever it takes)_

That rough sound in Phil’s voice.  The sound of wanting something.   So badly, to the exclusion of everything else.

Dean knew the sound of that voice.  That had been _his_ voice, plenty of times.

Dean looked at Phil with some sympathy.   Saw the older man noticing this.  But then Phil’s hands tightened on him further.   He looked determined now.  No more kidding around. 

“So…since you’re _not_ leavin kiddo…we’re gettin those things started,” Phil said.  “Right now _.”_    And he leaned forward.

Dean broke away from Phil’s grip and stepped back.  Phil frowned.  Made to grab him again.  Dean held up a hand.  “What if I just want to _work_ here?”  he asked.  “’N’ that’s all?”

Phil, standing there, glowering at him.  Dean had the impression the man was one heartbeat away from leaping forward and trying to wrestle Dean to the floor.  “That’s not the message _I_ got,” Phil said.  “Not when I hired you.”

Dean was tired, suddenly.  Exhausted.  He felt his shoulders slump.  Okay, so Phil wasn’t an idiot.  An asshole, but not an idiot.  That had been _Dean,_ apparently.  Why had he had to go and fucking do that?   Get this guy going.  And just to make a _point,_ Jesus.  “Well…that’s really all that I want,” he said.  “Whatever you thought…it was just a misunderstandin.  Can’t we just move on?”

Phil staring at him.  “I don’t think so,” he said eventually.  “You’re…on my mind, Blondie.  You’re all I think about these days.”

Dean stared back.

“Comin into my shop, beggin for work…” Phil continued softly.  “And then givin me that _eye_ …this tough talkin blonde kid, gorgeous as hell and all on his own…missing his daddy…”

Dean felt a sudden swell of emotion.   He didn’t say anything.  But he could feel the expression, on his face.

All on his own.

His dad,  laughing.

_(Got it all figured out, haven’t you son?)_

His dad, pissed at him.  Radio silent.  Leaving Dean to deal with things on his own, like he’d wanted to.  Eighteen year old Dean, thinking he was so tough.  Telling his dad to go to hell, more or less.

_(You ungrateful little shit)_

And Dean wanted his dad here, right now.  He wanted John strolling up with his gun in his hand and dealing with this situation in about two seconds.

His dad.  Dean _did_ miss him.  (Not that he’d ever say so).

But whatever.  His dad _wasn’t_ here.  Dean would have to manage this asshole by himself.

All on his own.  Because he’d _never_ be able to say anything about this to Sammy. 

Or his dad.

Alone.  Alone here, with this fucking mess.

Phil, watching Dean’s face.  His eyes had gone quiet.  But then he did something…surprising.

He reached out and stroked Dean’s cheek.

Dean stared at him, shocked.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Phil said quietly.  “You’re on your own, I get that.  Just doin your best with what you’ve got.” 

Dean felt his expression twist.

“…even if it meant giving me ideas,” Phil continued.  He looked at Dean gravely, not touching him now.   “Which you did.  On purpose.  And you know it.”

Dean was silent.

“You started something Blondie,” Phil continued.  His voice had darkened slightly.  “Somethin we got to settle.  And until we do…there’s no movin on.”

But then he just stood there.  Watching Dean quietly.

“…So what do you want?” Dean asked him.  He felt tired again.

Starting something.  He hadn’t meant to.  He hadn’t wanted to.  But he just… _had,_ that’s all.

Dean was conscious of an exasperated anger, directed mostly at himself.

He had.  Why?  Because he could.  It’s what he did, with men like Phil.  It came naturally by now.

Those assholes.

(But Phil, touching him gently). 

_(Just doin your best)_

Dean was, though.

This wasn’t fair.

Phil smiled at him again, with that open, strangely sweet smile like the one that had startled Dean earlier.  But then he stepped forward.  Grasped Dean by his shoulders.   “I want _this,”_ he said quietly.    

Dean looked at him.  Phil was going to kiss him, he saw.

Phil looked back.  His expression was serious now.   “I want this,” he whispered.  And then he leaned forward.  And kissed Dean on the mouth.  Very gently.

Dean stood still for it.  He hadn’t meant to.

But this gentleness.  It was different.  Unexpected.

Phil kissed him again, very carefully, like Dean was made of glass.  Dean felt his lips soften.  But then he caught himself.  Stepped back.

Phil’s hands on his shoulders.  “No,” Phil whispered.   “Just let me-”   And he was kissing Dean, again, a little harder this time.

The feel of the older man’s mouth.  So different from Sam’s smooth mouth.

_Sam.  Sammy._

“Stop it,” Dean whispered.

“Not yet,” Phil whispered back.  “You like it, Blondie, you know you do.”  And now one hand, stroking down the front of Dean’s body, slipping between Dean’s legs.  Turning up, to cup Dean’s cock through his jeans. 

A tingle of pleasure, unexpected. 

But then Dean jumped back.  “Stop it!” he snapped.  He grabbed at Phil’s hand.

But now Phil gripped him, hard.  “Kid,” he said.  “I know you want this.”  His voice wasn’t gentle now.  “Stop playin me.  Christ.”  And his hand, firmly cupping Dean between the legs, thumb stroking over him.

Which felt good, in spite of everything.  Phil seemed to know what he was doing.  Dean stood still for a moment.  But then he started to struggle again.  “I don’t-“  He yanked on Phil’s hand. 

Which tightened on him, Phil now gripping Dean’s shoulder and between his legs, painfully.  “Stop fighting me Blondie,” Phil said harshly.   He sounded… _impatient_ , Jesus.   Like _Dean_ was the moron, here.  “Shit.  I c’n see why those guys at Ricky’s wanted to beat you up.”   He started to pull Dean towards him.

Dean, furious.  He grabbed the wrist of the hand Phil had buried between his legs.  “I said, _stop it!”_ Dean said.  He dug his thumbs into Phil’s wrist, warningly.

 _“Ouch!”_ Now Phil sounded angry.   His other hand came up, tight around Dean’s throat.  He pushed Dean’s chin up violently, the heel of his hand digging into Dean’s windpipe.  “Don’t _fight_ me, you little faggot!” he said harshly.  “You’ve been _asking_ for this.”

Dean felt his lips move back in a snarl.  He brought a knee up, aiming for Phil’s balls.  Phil swore, jumped back just in time.  His hold on Dean’s throat loosened.  Dean yanked hard on Phil’s wrist, bending it back painfully.  “Ouch!” Phil yelped.  Dean stepped back, still gripping Phil’s wrist, then spun him around in one rapid motion, twisting the other man’s arm up painfully behind his back.  Kept hold of Phil’s wrist, his thumbs digging in, finding the nerves there.   

 _“Fuck!”_ Phil exclaimed.  He was flinching with pain, helpless in Dean’s hold.  “Kid, you do that again I’ll fuckin _kill_ you!”

“You c’n try,” Dean replied.   He twisted Phil’s arm back further, feeling the sudden resistance at the shoulder joint, the tendons there pulled tight.  Phil felt it too.  He froze. 

“I c’n tear your arm right out of its socket,” Dean said to him coldly.  “Break your wrist in two places.   You don’t believe me?”

Phil was silent.

“I wasn’t kiddin when I said I’d hurt you,” Dean said.  He twisted Phil’s arm a bit more, to emphasize this.  Phil flinched again.  “Let me go,” he said. 

Dean didn’t move.

“Let me go, kid,” Phil said.  He was speaking with difficulty.

Dean didn’t move.  “Don’t try anythin,” Dean said.  “I’m warnin you.”

“I won’t,” Phil said.

Dean waited another second or two.  Then released Phil, slowly. 

Phil stepped away.  He turned around, rubbing his wrist.  Stared at Dean, breathing hard.  “Where’d you learn _that_ move?” he asked, eventually.

“My dad,” Dean said.  He gazed back at Phil, unblinking.  “’N’ that’s not the only one he taught me either.  I c’n take you _down,_ Phil.  And I will, if I have to.  Charge me with assault if you want.”

Phil, staring at him.  He looked like he was considering throwing a punch.  Dean tensed.  But then Phil shrugged, his posture relaxing.  Dean saw him take a breath.  Then he smiled, wryly.  Spread his hands.  “Nope,” Phil said.  “That’s not what I want to do with you, kid.” 

He looked at Dean, his smile fading.  “Not at all.”

Dean didn’t respond.  He stood there, ready for anything.

Phil gazed at him, those dark eyes with a new expression in them.   Recognition.  And respect, the kind you give to something dangerous.  “You win, Blondie,” Phil said quietly.   

Dean wasn’t celebrating yet.

“So apologize to me,” Dean said.

“For what?” Phil asked.  He was gazing at Dean with this kind of… _soft_ expression in his eyes now. 

Jesus.  Was Phil _still_ interested?  Dean had to get out of here.

But first.

“For tryin to pull that shit you did,”  Dean said.  “And for callin me a faggot,” he added.

Phil looked amused now.  “Can’t blame me for trying,” he said.  “Not after that shit _you_ pulled.  And I’m callin it like it is.  I know a faggot when I see one.”

“Fuck you, man,” Dean said.  “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I may not know much,” Phil agreed.  “But I know that.”  He looked at Dean consideringly.  “You ever been with a girl, Dean?”

Dean stared.  Where had _that_ come from?  “Yeah,” he replied defensively.

Phil smiled.  “I mean, _really_ with one,” he said.  “Like her pussy…like that was just _it,_ for you.  Not just for show.”

Dean didn’t answer. 

Phil, looking at him.  “I didn’t think so,” he said, softly.

Dean, not answering.  Because he couldn’t, suddenly.      

_For show._

All those times he’d fooled around with girls.  Numberless girls, barely remembered, nameless to him, finally, an easy access candy store of girls, one lollipop after another.  Fun, but ultimately just window dressing for his dad.  Because of Sammy, to keep their secret.  And Sam, looking away from all of that, his face still.  Pretending not to care.  Being _understanding._

Dean felt _bad,_ suddenly, thinking about this.   Shitty.  He’d been a shit, to Sam, putting his little brother through that.  And to those girls too, Dean using them without a thought. 

He’d been a shit.  And it had taken an asshole like _Phil_ to point it out. 

But at least he’d never fucked any of them.  He hadn't felt right about it, not with _Sam,_ waiting for him at home.

But…was that what Phil had meant?  

Dean had always assumed that sex with girls was just a matter of time.  When he and Sammy were less consumed with each other.  Less obsessed.  And that hadn’t happened, yet.

But what if that wasn’t just it?

It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t thought about this before (like every time he cleaned out a mark, at pool).  And it wasn’t a comfortable thought.

But really, it wasn’t anyone’s business but his.    _Fuck_ Phil, for bringing it up now. 

He glared at Phil.  “Fuck off,” he said.  “You don’t know _shit_.”

Phil’s dark eyes, watching him.  “Not true,” he said, softly.  “It takes one to know one.  And you have that vibe about you Blondie, the one that says you like being with a man.“

“…You callin yourself a faggot, Phil?” Dean asked him, after a moment.

Phil grinned suddenly.  “Guess I am,” he said.  Shrugged.  “Thought I’d left that behind me, like I said.  But after seein you…” He shrugged.

Great.

“Great,” Dean said.  “Lucky me.”

“Yeah,” Phil said.  He looked rueful again.   “I want to put you over my desk so bad, Blondie.  Get that ass in the air.  Fuck that ass.  It’s all I’ve been thinking about, for weeks.”

“You were ready to rape me, just now,” Dean said.  “You would’ve, if you’d been able to.”

Phil nodded.  Shrugged, like this was no big deal.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Probably.”

“You’d never get near me,” Dean said.  His tone was matter-of-fact.

“Uh huh,” Phil replied mildly.  Dean looked at him.  “You try again,” Dean said, “you end up dead.”  And he meant it too.  He stared at Phil coldly.

Phil smiled.  “Oh…I’m not gonna fight you,” he said.  “You win, Blondie, like I said.”

And stood there, calmly.

“Okay,” Dean said, eventually.  “So…now what?”

“Now you…go home,” Phil said.  “Go on home to Sammy.”

Sammy.  Dean wanted to see him, suddenly.  Wanted to see his brother, so bad.

_(Sam, running up to him.  Hugging him.  “Dean!”)_

Dean closed his eyes.  When he opened them again he saw Phil staring at him, thoughtfully.

“I just…go home?” Dean said to him.

“Yeah,” Phil replied.  “Take your money and go.”  And he pulled the cash out of his pocket and held it out to Dean.  Dean looked at him.  He didn’t move.  Phil shrugged then laid the bills down on his desk.  “Suit yourself,” he said.  “Take it or not.  I don’t care.”

Dean stood there.  Was this for real? 

Did this mean…what?  That Phil was just letting him _leave_ for the day, like this whole thing had never happened?  Or did that mean that Dean was being fired?  And would Phil call the cops, like he’d threatened, as soon as Dean was out the door? (I mean, Dean _had_ nearly maimed him).

“What are you sayin to me?” Dean asked Phil.

“I’m _sayin…take_ your money and _go,”_ Phil repeated.  “Go on home.”  He looked at Dean calmly.

Dean stood there uncertainly.  Okay.  So maybe he could really just leave.  Leave like this had never happened and go home to Sam, driving back towards his brother along country roads, quiet under a darkening sky.

Christmas Eve.  Sam waiting for him.  But Dean didn’t move.  He couldn’t, somehow.  

Couldn’t move.  Couldn’t do anything.

Driving back to Sam, with this painful scene playing over in his mind. 

_Take your money and go._

Dean was ninety percent sure this meant that he was fired.  And he wasn’t one _hundred_ percent sure that Phil _wouldn’t_ call the cops on him just as soon as he left, just to be an asshole (and _that’s_ all him and Sam needed, Christ, Dean coming to the attention of law enforcement _again,_ especially with the two of them staying at the hunter’s safehouse on Bobby’s word.  Dean could just hear his dad’s views on _that)_. 

And how was he supposed to tell Sam he’d lost his job _,_ the day before _Christmas?_

_“You ‘n’ me’ll stay here,”  Dean had said. “ Let you be in one place for awhile.  I’ll take the winter off.  Find a job.”_

_And Sam’s eyes on him, so delighted.  Hopeful.  “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”_

_And Dean.  “I want you to be happy.  I’ll do whatever it takes.”_

I’ll do whatever it takes.

Dean, making those promises to his brother, so confidently. 

_(I never promised Sam anythin but he what he got from me)_

His dad.   Maybe there was something in what his dad had said, after all.

Suddenly Dean was exhausted again.  Exhausted, the adrenaline that had flooded him during that struggle with Phil gone now, like it had never been there.

His dad, those hard eyes on him, without sympathy.

_(You’re so set on doin this?  You’re doin it on your own)_

Dean stood there, like a statue of himself. 

“What you waiting for?”  Phil asked him, eventually.  He gestured to the door.   “Go.  I’m not stopping you.”

Dean looked at him, then at the door.   After a moment, he started towards it. 

But then Phil’s hands on Dean’s arms.  “Uh uh,” Phil said.  “I was just kiddin, Blondie.  I _am_ stopping you.” 

Dean halted, staring at him.  Phil’s hands on him, after all that.  But Dean was too exhausted now to care.  “What do you mean?” he asked, dully.

Phil said, softly, “You don’t want to have to leave, remember? You like your job.”  Dean looked at him, silent. 

“And you…like me,” Phil continued.  “You said that.” 

“Not like _that_ I don’t,” Dean said.  But he didn’t move.

“You might _say_ that,” Phil said.  He was watching Dean closely.  “But we both know different.”

Dean looked at him.

Phil looked back.  “Think carefully, kid,” he said.  “Before you go doin anything rash, here.  Don’t be closing doors you might not want to close.”

Dean didn’t answer.  Doing something _rash._ Closing _doors._   Jesus.  Phil had a lot of nerve, saying that to him.  Dean needed to leave, now.  But his feet felt heavy.  Nailed to the ground. 

Sammy.  What to say to _Sammy?_   Dean couldn’t think of _anything_ other than, ‘This situation’s gotten fucked up and we need to go.’  And then to see that disappointed look in Sammy’s eyes.  Or worse, the resignation.  To see that, again. 

Exhausted.   He stood tiredly under Phil’s hands.  “Phil,” he said.  “Cut the shit.  Do I still have a job here or not?”

“Do you still want a job here?” Phil asked.

“I dunno,” Dean replied.  “Do I?  Are you gonna leave me alone?”

Phil looking at him, dark eyes considering.  Then he smiled.  “Okay Blondie,” he said.  “Tell you what.  We’re gonna settle this.  For both of us, fair ‘n’ square.”  He patted Dean’s arms.  “Okay?”

Dean looked at him warily.  “How?” 

“I’m gonna kiss you again,” Phil said.

Dean’s eyes went cold.  Phil immediately stepped back, raised his hands.  “Hey, _hey!_   Calm down, Blondie.  Just a kiss.  One for the road.  And if you don’t feel it…like I’m feelin it…we move on.   No hard feelings.  You keep your job and we pick up again on Boxing Day, like nothing happened.  I’ll leave you alone.  Deal?”

Dean looked at him.  Phil gazing back, his eyes steady. 

“…You could do that?” Dean asked him.

Phil shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said.

“You said you _couldn’t_ move on,” Dean said.  “Earlier.”

“Well I’m not an _idiot,”_ Phil said.  He grinned at Dean suddenly.  “If it’s move on or get my arm ripped off…well…” he shrugged.

Dean smiled back slightly, in spite of himself.  Phil was an asshole, but he did have a sense of humour.  “You’re not mad?” he asked.

Phil was gazing at him steadily again.  “No,” he said quietly.  “I’m not mad.”

“…You’d just let me…work here then?” Dean asked him.  “No hard feelings?”

“Nope,” Phil said.  “Fair ‘n’ square, just like I said.  If you win, you win.”  He met Dean’s eyes, calmly.

Dean considered this.  Negotiating.  Phil was negotiating.  Dean could negotiate, he guessed.  I mean, what was the alternative?

_(Leaving here with no job.  Having to explain the situation to Sam.  And his brother’s eyes on him, worried, disappointed, resigned)._

“Okay,” Dean said eventually.

Phil smiled.  “Okay.”  He waited a moment, watching Dean.  Then put his hands cautiously on Dean’s arms.

Dean didn’t move.

Phil, watching him.  Dean stared back at him coldly.  His lips were set in a thin line.  But he didn’t move.

Phil, observing this.  He came a little closer. 

Dean didn’t move.

Phil leaned forward.  And then he kissed Dean, again. 

But he didn’t kiss Dean’s mouth this time.

He kissed Dean’s throat.

Very gently.

Dean was still.

That kiss, on his throat.  So gentle, like Sam would often kiss him there.

Dean hadn’t expected that.

“What’re you doin?” he asked faintly.

“Shh,” Phil whispered against his throat.  “I’m just settling you down.  You were lookin pretty tense there, Blondie.”  And kissing Dean again, just under his ear, very gently.

Dean’s breath caught.  Phil kissing him on that spot, the one that Sam would feed on.  The man knew what he was doing. 

But Dean had seen that about him, already.

Phil might be an older dude (okay, _way_ older), and living like a civilian, but Dean hadn’t been fooled.  Phil had the presence of a hunter, a natural predator, Dean could see that, even if Phil's true nature had been buried under his last twenty odd years of life as a small town businessman.   

Those narrow dark eyes, dark with intent.

Hunter’s eyes, like Dean’s dad’s.  Like Bobby’s.  Like all of them finally, the hunters that Dean had grown up with, however friendly or mild they might seem at first introduction.  Because that behaviour was just a cover and if you knew what to look for you saw through it pretty fast.  It came down to their eyes finally, endlessly scanning the landscape for threat and opportunity.  And ready to act, always ready, that showed in their eyes too.  And once you saw that, you knew.

What you were dealing with. 

An individual with a straightforward worldview. 

That you were the hunter.  Or you were the hunt.

And you stepped up to the plate when the hunt was on.

Phil had those qualities.  And Dean had seen them, the first time they’d met.  He’d…noticed that, about Phil.  And yeah, he’d let Phil _see_ that he’d noticed.  For whatever reason.

_(You…like me)_

No.  Forget it. 

But that mouth, gentle on his throat.

But that was just Phil, negotiating.  He’d seen he couldn’t take Dean by force so now he was trying a tactic.  Fine.  Dean would show him it was useless.  And then he’d go home to Sammy. _With_ that three hundred extra fucking bucks.   _And_ a job to go back to on Friday, because after this, Phil would leave him alone. 

Because he’d see that trying anything more with Dean was a waste of time.

Because _Dean,_ despite that little act he’d pull with the marks, was _not_ the hunt.  Ever.  He was a hunter.  And his worldview was straightforward too.

So him and Phil could move on from this, because fair was fair.  Dean believed Phil, actually, when he said that.  Because Phil was looking at Dean differently now, like one hunter to another.  And hunters kept their promises to each other because the alternative was usually death.  Dean understood all about that and he could work with it just fine.  (And more importantly, Sammy would _never_ know that _any_ of this had happened…because _Dean_ had handled it.  Managed it.  Contained both this asshole and this fucked up situation).

Dean bit the inside of his mouth. 

Phil, nuzzling him.

“You’re one tough kid,” Phil murmured against Dean’s skin.  “Aren’t you Blondie?  No one gets close to you unless you let them.”  And he was kissing Dean’s throat again, that hard mouth touching him delicately.  And then biting Dean, very carefully, on the side of his neck.

Oh. 

Dean’s skin, tingling.

Jesus. 

No.  Forget it.

“You done yet?” Dean asked roughly.  He was breathless, in spite of himself.

“Nope.”  Phil sounded amused.  “Got to get to that mouth of yours first, Blondie.”  But then he kissed Dean’s throat again, putting his tongue to the skin.  Nuzzling up under Dean’s ear.  Licking Dean on that spot.

“Well hurry up,” Dean said.  “Get it over with.”  But he didn’t sound irritated, like he’d meant to.  His voice came out low, softened.   More of a murmer, than anything.

“Okay,” Phil whispered. 

His lips moved to Dean’s mouth. 

Dean held himself still.  He kept his lips sealed.  “Blondie,” Phil whispered.  “C’mon.  Be fair.”  And now kissing Dean on the mouth, very gently but insistently, brushing his lips back and forth.  Kissing Dean like he was tasting him, touching his tongue lightly against Dean’s closed lips. 

Dean stood there.  But the fact that he _wasn’t_ participating, just standing there, letting Phil do all the work, meant that he was _there,_ not doing anything but absorbing this. 

Aware of it. 

And Phil knew how to kiss.  He was good at it.  And he was kissing Dean so delicately, something that Dean had never experienced before, not even from Sam (Dean not exactly the delicate type). 

Phil’s lips, lightly touching.  “You’re one tough kid alright,” Phil whispered.  “But you’re lettin me close, aren’t you Blondie?”  He nibbled softly at Dean’s mouth.  One hand came up to stroke Dean’s throat. 

Callused fingers on Dean’s skin, lightly scraping.  Oh.  Dean arched his neck under those fingers before he realized what he was doing.  He opened his mouth.   And Phil immediately moved in, his tongue slipping between Dean’s lips.

“-No!” Dean jerked back.  “I didn’t-“  He closed his mouth tight.  And felt Phil’s lips, gentle again.

“Sure,” Phil whispered against Dean’s sealed lips.  “Okay.  Sorry about that.”  And kissing Dean again, lightly, gently.  Phil had sounded like he was smiling, not upset at Dean for shutting him out.  But then he suddenly crowded Dean up against the desk, Dean’s butt landing hard against the edge.  Dean winced and nearly lost his balance, grabbing onto Phil’s shoulders to prevent himself from falling backwards.

“That’s it,” Phil said.  He sounded pleased as punch.  “You hang on tight.”  And he pushed Dean’s legs apart, putting himself between them. 

Phil’s cock, pushed up tight between his legs.  Dean opened his mouth to tell the man to get off him or prepare to get killed, because _this_ wasn’t a kiss, you bastard.  But Phil had been waiting for that obviously, because he took immediate advantage, thrusting his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth, turning the words Dean had been about to say into a stifled moan.  And then he shoved his cock up hard between Dean’s legs. 

Dean gasped.   A crazy pleasure, suddenly spiralling through him.

That hard cock, pressed against Dean hungrily.  It was-

Dean ripped his mouth away from Phil’s.  “Get off me,” he said harshly.  “That isn’t-“

“- _Relax_ Blondie,” Phil said.  “You c’n leave whenever you want, okay?  But just let me do this, just for a second.  Gimme a fair shot, here.”   He’d inserted himself between Dean’s legs, fitted tightly against Dean’s crotch, the hard bulge of his cock pushing against Dean insistently.  

Dean held still for a moment, distracted.  Phil’s body was so different from Sam’s, Dean couldn’t help but notice it, Phil broader than Sam and stronger.  Sam when he’d do this was like a cat, writhing against Dean sinuously, clutching at his brother with claws and teeth.  This man was coming at Dean like a bull.  But there was a pleasure in that too, Dean couldn’t deny it.  But still.  “Phil, get the _fuck off_ _m_ – “ Phil’s hand on his mouth.

“ -You c’n kill me in a minute,” Phil muttered.  “Just let me- “ and he was breathing hard now.  He took his hand away from Dean’s mouth, replacing it with his own mouth.  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you Blondie?” Phil whispered against Dean’s lips.  And rocking up hard against Dean’s crotch.  “I c’n tell.”

And Dean remembered how him and Sammy would do this together.   Before they started fucking.  Rubbing, _grinding_ against each other, so hard, every chance they got, pressed up against each other wordlessly, like they were trying to get under each other’s skin _._  

And now Phil, pressing himself into Dean like that.  Like doing this to Dean was his right. 

Grinding, _pounding_ Dean between his legs, remorselessly.  And the pleasure, spiralling.

“You’re hard, Blondie,” Phil whispered.  And his cock, rubbing. “You’re hard for me,” Phil said.  “C’ _mon-_ And his hands, now gripping Dean’s ass, pulling him closer in.  Pulling Dean up hard onto his cock.  _“That’s_ it,” the older man whispered.  “You’re lettin me in Blondie.”

Dean felt his legs sprawling open.  Involuntarily, out of his control, like they belonged to somebody else.   “You fucking asshole,” he said.  Phil laughed.  But he was kissing Dean again, hard now, his tongue stabbing and Dean opened his mouth, let Phil’s tongue into his mouth.  And opened his legs, let Phil’s cock press up hard against his cock, the sensation sparking sharply.

And Dean was aware of his own body, now lifting up, seeking more, seeking Phil’s cock, that hard, hungry bulge scraping along the length of Dean’s cock, Dean _fitting_ himself against Phil, Phil’s body now a tight, delicious weight against him.

“Shit _,”_ Dean whispered.  He was shuddering.

“You’re feelin it,” Phil murmured.  Kissing him, tonguing him.  “You _want_ this, Blondie.”  And rocking against Dean _hard_ , his cock grinding against Dean’s cock exquisitely, with Dean’s legs spread wide, letting him have his way. 

Dean, shuddering.   

“You want what I got to give,” Phil mumured, and Dean couldn’t answer, overcome with the sensation flooding through him, lighting up every nerve.

But suddenly tears rising.

Sammy.  Doing this with Sammy, exactly like this, the two of them rocking into each other, grinding into each other, clutching each other, so tight.

Sammy.  Sam.  His brother’s face under his, those puppy eyes hazy with pleasure, gazing up at him. 

_Dean._

Dean had to get out of here.  Now.  What him and Phil were doing…this wasn’t a _negotiation_ , Jesus _._  

This was something else. 

But he didn’t move.   Phil’s hard hands clutching him, Phil’s breath coming rapidly now, his chest pressing against Dean, a hard, warm wall.  And suddenly Phil’s lips again, on Dean’s throat.  Sucking on him.  _Biting_ him, oh.  And Phil’s cock, thrusting, _fucking_ Dean, between his legs.  Dean closed his eyes, agonized.  His body, shuddering.

_And Sam, looking at him.  Sam’s eyes on him, full of hurt, confused._

How could Dean have let this happen?  He’d never be able to look his brother in the eye again.

Phil’s voice, the triumphant sound in it.

_You want what I got to give._

And what was that?

Dean, with tears on his cheeks.

_You want._

Want what?  Want _what?_   What was _that,_ that had brought Dean, to this place?

What the _fuck_ could possibly be _that?_

“What do you _mean?”_ Dean asked Phil.  He heard his own voice, shaking.  “What do I want?”

Phil’s mouth, feeding on him.  Dean didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t reacting anymore.  He tilted his head, bearing his throat to the other man’s lips.  Felt Phil’s mouth move in a smile.  “You want me,” Phil murmured.  “No,” Dean whispered.  “Yeah,” Phil whispered back.  “You want me.”  And now his hand, moving strongly between Dean’s legs, Dean shuddering helplessly. “Takin care of this for you.”  And Phil's hand, the thumb and fingers working.

“No,” Dean whispered painfully.  Conscious of that skilled hand, on him.  “I don’t want that.”

“Yeah,” Phil whispered back.  Stroking him, palming him.  “You do.  You _want_ me to take care of you, Blondie.  And I will.  I will.”

And then Phil suddenly kissing him, rocking into him, Dean clutching at him, gasping now.  “Put your legs around me,” Phil murmured and Dean did, wrapping his legs around Phil’s waist and letting his cock _ride_ against Phil’s cock, grinding up against him (and Phil’s breath hissing, Phil fastening his mouth on Dean’s throat again).

“I’ll take care of you,” Phil whispered, and Dean froze.

I’ll take care of you.

Those words.

Dean had said those words himself.  To Sam, so many times.  Back through all the years, since Sam was too young to talk.  And Sam, looking back at Dean expectantly.  Confidently.

Because he knew Dean would be there, doing exactly that.  Never a question.  Never questioned by any of them, Sammy, Dean _or_ their dad.  Because questions like that didn’t _apply_ to Dean.  And he’d never thought to ask them either.  Unlike now.

_What do I want?_

Phil holding Dean hard, his hands back on Dean’s ass, grinding Dean up against him.  Speaking against Dean’s mouth, _“God_ Blondie, I’m dyin for you.  You’re lettin me in.  Okay?   _Fuck- ”_

 _Phil’s_ voice, shaking now.  But Dean barely noticed, he was barely aware of Phil, suddenly. 

_I’ll take care of you._

Dean, saying those words.  And he had.  He had.  But had he heard them?  Ever?

_(I’ve forged you, Dean)_

_(to be a weapon)_

That’s what his _dad_ had said.  And Dean accepting it.  Accepting it calmly, because he’d understood what was expected of him.  What to expect.  Unlike _Sam,_ who’d never understood.  Or accepted.  Or been calm.  And Dean, always dealing with that.  Always taking care.  Of all of them, but _especially_  of Sam, his little brother, so often unhappy.

 _(You take care of me)_  

Sam saying that to Dean, so many times.  Saying that.  Tenderly.  And sometimes bitterly, in anger. 

_(You take care of me, Dean)  _

But never the other way around.  Never hearing

those words

the other way around.

_(I’ll take care of you)_

Dean, never hearing that.  Not once.  And accepting that, too.

Calmly. 

Suddenly Dean was shaking. 

Phil nuzzling him, his hands now fumbling with Dean’s belt buckle.  Whispering.  “Let me, let me Blondie… _god_ …”

Dean sat up.  Until now he’d been leaning backwards under Phil’s body, clutching at the other man for balance.  But now he sat up, coming up solidly against Phil’s chest.  “No,” he said quietly.  He put his hands on Phil’s hands, stopping their activities.  ".. _.What_ Blondie?” Phil said.  He sounded exasperated.  But not mad, not with Dean’s body plastered against him. 

Dean removed Phil’s hands from his belt buckle.  But then he placed them on his waist.  Held them there.  “What’re you _doing?”_ Phil asked after a moment.  Dean didn’t answer.  But he didn’t move either.  Just stayed there, his hands on top of Phil’s hands, his butt perched on the desk, Phil standing between his legs.  He felt Phil’s chest heaving against him, Phil trying to get himself back under control.  Dean just stayed still, letting him do that.  Felt the other’s man’s breath, slowing.

After a moment, Phil put his arms around Dean’s waist.  “Is _this_ what you want?” he asked.  Dean didn’t answer. 

“…Okay,” Phil said after another moment.  Holding Dean now, with a certain amount of caution.  “I’ve got you Blondie.  What next?”

Dean didn’t answer.  But then he leaned forward.  And let himself collapse onto Phil, leaning into the older man with his weight. 

He tucked his head under Phil’s chin.

“What’s this?” Phil asked.  He sounded surprised.  But after a moment, his arms wrapped around Dean tightly.

Dean was shaking.  He put his arms around Phil’s waist.  “You’ll take care of me,” he whispered.   

“Yeah, Blondie,” Phil whispered back.   “I will.”  He slipped his hands up under Dean’s jacket, spreading them over Dean’s back.  “I’ll take care of you,” Phil whispered. 

Dean’s chest was heaving.  He leaned forward.  Leaned into Phil, burrowing into him.   

“You’d do that for me,” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Phil said.  “I would.  I will.  I told you that.”

“You meant it,” Dean whispered. 

“Yeah,” Phil said.  “I meant it.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

Phil was silent.  Then said, “Because you want it, Blondie.  You know you do.”

“I want what you got to give,” Dean said.  And he heard a terrible sadness in his voice.

_I want._

“Yeah,” Phil said quietly.  “That’s right.  That’s right, Blondie.  You’re seeing it, now.”

Dean, leaning into him.  He felt Phil kiss his hair.  But then Phil put his hands under Dean’s jaw, tilting his head back.  He kissed Dean’s  mouth again.  Dean let him, although he hadn’t asked for that.  After a few moments he moaned, softly.

“God you’re so hot,” Phil muttered against Dean’s mouth.  He was kissing Dean hard now.  “One hot fuckin kid.” 

_(You’re still a kid, even if you don’t think you are)_

Dean’s dad, saying that to him.

Phil’s mouth on him, again. 

“No,” Dean whispered.  He broke the kiss and put his face back into Phil’s throat.  Then leaned on him. 

“Honey,” Phil said, “What’re you _doing?”_ Dean didn’t answer.  He leaned on Phil, silently. 

Then felt Phil’s arms, folding around him.  “Okay,” Phil whispered.  “Okay kiddo.  I’ve got you.  It’s okay.”   He kissed Dean again, but on the side of his head this time.  He was still hard, Dean could feel bulge of his cock, but Phil wasn’t pressing it against him on purpose anymore.

“Shhh,” Phil said.  His hands, stroking Dean’s back.

And Dean, just leaning against him.   Against this man he barely knew, who he’d despised, until about sixty seconds ago.   

This man, the same age as Dean’s dad.  With _kids_ even, around Dean’s age.  Phil was a dad, too.

“Just let me…” Dean whispered.  His chest was heaving.

“What?” Phil whispered back.

“Just let me do this,” Dean whispered.  He could barely speak.

“Okay,” Phil said.  “Okay Blondie.  You do that as long as you want.  I’m not going anywhere.”  One hand came up to stroke Dean’s hair.  Dean felt this and buried his face deeper in Phil’s throat.

“Shhh, Blondie,” Phil said.  “I’ve got you.  It’s okay.”

I’ve got you.

Dean, saying that to Sammy, whenever his brother was crying.  After something had happened, between his brother and their dad.  

Or him.  

Dean had made Sam cry too, plenty of times.  And Sam, leaning on him so tiredly, afterwards.

Years of that.

Dean was shaking again.

“Shhh,” Phil said.  “Shhh.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.

_(Sammy)_

“What for?” Phil whispered back.  “Nothing to be sorry about, Blondie.”  Stroking Dean’s hair.  And Dean leaning on him, barely able to breathe.

_I've got you._

But what did that really _mean,_ finally?  Did it really make things better?

“What you were sayin,” Dean said eventually.  When he could speak again.  “Earlier.  When you said you’d charge me, get me in trouble with the police.  You didn’t mean it.  Did you?”

“No,” Phil said.  “I didn’t mean it.  I was just sayin that so you wouldn’t leave.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” Dean whispered into Phil’s throat.  He felt exhausted again.  He couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet Phil’s eyes.

(Sammy’s eyes, on him)

_You take care of me, Dean._

Bitter.  Tender.

Dean couldn’t, he couldn’t move.  He lay quietly against Phil, his face pressed against the other man’s warm skin.

“No,” Phil said.  “I wouldn’t do that to you.”  His hands holding Dean, stroking over him.

"Not when I’m tryin so hard,” Dean whispered.  "To make things right."

“No,” Phil said.  And then, “I know you’re tryin.  I get it.” 

“No you don’t,” Dean said.  And he felt a great darkness rising up, surrounding him.  Enclosing him within itself, separating him from Phil and from everything else. 

From everything, except one thing.  The one thing.

_(I’ve got you)_

And Dean felt his brother’s presence, Sam with him suddenly, his arms around Dean, trusting.  Sam pressed against Dean’s body, leaning on Dean exhausted, his breath slowing after tears.  Sam’s eyes, closed.

Sam enclosed by darkness too.

Dean raised his head, meeting Phil’s eyes.  “No one gets it.”

“I do,” Phil said.  He gazed back at Dean quietly.  “You’re lookin out for yourself and your brother, I get it, Dean.  I’ll help you.”

_(You and your brother)_

Phil’s rough voice. 

_(I’ll help you)_

But Phil couldn’t.  And he’d never get why.  No one would ever get that.

And it was important of course, that they didn’t.

“No,“ Dean whispered.  “I-“ he started to get up.  Pushed at Phil, trying to move him out of the way.

“Whoa.” Phil’s hands, grasping him.  He stood solidly in front of Dean, not going anywhere.  “Don’t do that, kiddo,” he said.  “Don’t start up again okay?  C’mon.” 

“But I can’t-”  Dean was trying to get himself up off the desk.  Phil’s hands tightened.  He pushed Dean back, gently.

“Shh,” Phil whispered.  “Settle down.  Everything will be okay, I promise.  I'll make sure of it, okay?”   His hands firmly on Dean’s arms now, holding him.

 _Don’t start up again._   Phil should take his own advice.  He couldn’t think that just because he was being nice right now he had the right to hold Dean down.  Dean shrugged Phil’s hands off, violently.

“Hey!”  Phil jumped back.  Spread his hands out.  “Kid.  Whoa.  Settle down.  Okay?”

Dean glared at him. 

Phil backed off another step, leaving Dean a free path the the door.  Stared at Dean warily.  But then he said, “You don’t have to do that, Dean.  Please.”

And Phil’s voice, quiet now.  No heat in it. 

Dean was tired again suddenly.  Exhaustion, settling into his body painfully, weakening him.  He felt it, in his expression.  Saw Phil’s eyes on his face. 

Then Phil opened his arms.  “C’mere.”

Dean hesitated.  He needed to leave.  But he was so tired.

He stepped forward, aiming towards the door.  But then suddenly he turned, let himself sink against Phil.  Felt Phil’s arms fold around him again.  Dean leaned against him, silent.

“That’s it,” Phil said.  “Put your arms around me, honey.  Don’t be shy.”  After a moment Dean put his arms around Phil’s waist.   “Yeah, like that,” Phil whispered. It sounded like he was smiling. “That’s my good kid.”  His arms warm and solid across Dean’s back.  “Put your head on my shoulder,” Phil murmured and Dean let his head drop onto the other man’s shoulder.  “Blondie,” Phil whispered.  And Dean felt Phil’s hand stroke his hair.    

Dean let him.  He lay quiet against Phil’s body.  Exhaustion, covering him like a blanket.  When had he last felt tired like this?  He couldn’t remember.  He felt Phil fitting himself closely against him again, the hard bulge of his cock nudging between Dean’s legs.  But Dean didn’t move. 

Phil kissing him, on Dean’s mouth, his cheek, his throat.  “God, I want you in a bed,” Phil muttered.  “We’ll figure something out quick, okay Blondie?  Next week maybe.” 

“What do you mean?” Dean mumbled.   Leaning against the other man, Phil’s arms around him, holding Dean like he was a package, the same way that Dean remembered holding Sammy when he was little.  Phil’s lips on Dean’s skin, but gently now.  Just nuzzling him, little pinpricks of sensation.  Dean absorbed this, quietly.

“I’m gonna make arrangements for you,” Phil replied.  “Have you ‘n’ your brother move into town.  And then when little Sammy’s at school…you ‘n’ me, we’ll have some fun.  Marv c’n always handle things at the shop for a couple hours.  Or if he’s not around…we’ll close if things aren’t busy.  Take a break,”  he finished, cheerfully.

Sounded like Phil had this all worked out.

Jesus.

“No,” Dean whispered.  “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Phil asked him.  His hand, stroking Dean’s hair.  “Sure you can.  I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Blondie.   You’ve got a good job here, and I’ll set you ‘n’ Sam up in a decent place, make sure the two of you have everythin you need.  And…I’ll teach you.  Everythin I know.  Train you up.  Help you get your license even.  We’ll work here together, you c’n learn the business.”  His voice lowered.  “And then we’ll do…everything else.”

Wow.  Phil sounded like he had Dean’s life planned out for him.  And Dean could see it suddenly, him and Sam in some little apartment, Dean working at the garage, becoming more and more central to the business as Phil’s respect for him grew.  Becoming Phil’s business partner even, maybe, eventually.  And as far as _Phil_ was concerned, a partner in…other things, as well. 

There was a catch though.   Dean _had_ partners.  Professionally and…personal too.   His dad and Sammy.  Dean was spoken for.

“…No,” Dean said again.  “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Phil said.  “What’s stopping you?  Your dad’s not here.  And Sammy doesn’t have to know, we’re keeping this a secret, anyway.  It’s not like I’m telling my _wife.”_

“I can’t,” Dean said, more firmly.  He put his hands on Phil’s shoulders, attempting to put some distance between them.  “I’m sorry, Phil.  All I can do is _work_ here.  I’m sorry.”

Phil, not moving.  “You can do more than that,” he said, his voice harder now.   “And you will.”

Dean didn’t like that.  He adjusted his hold on Phil, getting ready to shove him out of the way.  But then Phil put his hand on the side of Dean’s face, running a thumb down Dean’s cheek, gently.  “Don’t fight this, Blondie, god,” Phil muttered.  “Not when I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”  And he leaned forward.  Dean tensed.  If Phil tried to rape him with his tongue again, that was it, the man was ending up on the floor.  Forget the job.  But Phil didn’t try to kiss Dean’s mouth this time. 

He put his lips on Dean’s forehead.  Lightly touched them there. 

Dean was still.

“Honey,” Phil said.  “You’ll be okay with me, okay?  I can see it.  We understand each other.  We’ll be good for each other.  Trust me.”

_We understand each other._

Yeah.  Dean understood men like Phil, alright.

But then Phil kissed him on his forehead again.

It felt strangely familiar.  But Dean couldn’t pinpoint it. 

It wasn’t like being kissed by Sam.   Sammy, kissing him like a child, like a brother.  And later, like a drug.  And Dean’s dad had _never_ kissed him, that Dean could remember (way too fuckin soft).  And the various girls too and that trucker that one time…none of them had kissed Dean like this.

But it felt…familiar.

Then Phil, straightening up.  Looking at Dean.  Saying to him, his voice rough and low.  “God, Blondie you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life.  That face of yours…it kills me.”

And Dean felt something inside of him break open. 

His dad, saying something similar to him.   On the night that Dean and Sam had fucked for the first time.  When Sam had said yes to him.

_(Mary’s face, but on you this time)_

His dad’s voice, dark with pain.  To be shared, matter-of-factly, with his oldest son.

_(it’s like a knife in my heart)_

Dean closed his eyes.  His mom.  Growing up with her face, that hurtful, frightening beauty that Dean had _never_ asked for.

_(Beauty like that…it’s a weapon)_

His dad saying that, his eyes empty.   

_(Your mother gave you her beauty.  And she’d want you to know how to use it)_

“Why would she want that for me?”  Dean had asked.  But his dad hadn’t answered.  Unable to bear any further conversation about his dead wife, Dean’s mom.  And Dean, not able to ask her himself. 

Never knowing, what she would have said to him.

_(Mom.  But Dad kept you, to himself)_

Dean stood still.  Quiet, his eyes still closed.  Darkness, in front of them. 

After awhile, Phil’s voice.  “Blondie?  You okay?”

Dean not answering.  A memory appearing against his eyelids, like a movie.

A memory, from long ago, until just now forgotten.  Back from when Sammy was a baby.

_(His mom smiling, kissing Dean on the forehead.  “My angel.”  And then her arms around him)_

Dean covered his face with his hands.

Phil’s voice.  “Blondie?  What’s wrong?”

Dean quiet.  Darkness again, in front of him, around him, surrounding him, endless. 

Phil, kissing Dean like he was a child. 

_(You want what I got to give)_

And Dean, quiet.

And the darkness, endless.

Why had Dean thought he could manage this?

“Hey,” Phil said.  “Blondie.  Talk to me.”

“Man…” Dean said, stifled.  “Stop comin at me.  Please…”

_His mom, her smile, that Dean had forgotten._

Phil, touching Dean’s hands gently.  “Honey.  Look at me.”

“I can’t,” Dean whispered.

His dad’s voice.

_(That angel face burnin up, before my eyes, screamin…)_

Dean, shaking.

“Dean?” Phil’s voice, concerned now.  “What’s going on?”

“I can’t,” Dean whispered.   He was shaking.  “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Phil asked him.  “Look at me sweetheart.  C’mon.”

“I can’t,” Dean whispered again.  “I can’t.  Do this.  Can’t.  You gotta stop.  Please.”  He didn’t look up.

Phil didn’t answer.  But Dean was aware of him, standing there silently. 

But he didn’t look up.  Didn’t move.

Because he couldn’t show his face anymore.  Not to Phil.  Not to anybody.

_(Your mother’s gift)_

His dad’s eyes, on Dean’s face.  But not seeing it. 

Seeing Mary’s face, his wife’s face, Dean’s mom, who Sam didn’t remember.

Dean’s hands, covering his face, forever.

He was silent.

So was Phil.

But eventually Phil spoke, tentatively.  “Look,” he said, “I know this is a lot to handle.  And you’re just a kid, I get it.  I’m sorry I came at you earlier like I did.  That was an asshole move.”

Dean didn’t say anything.  Kept still, his face hidden.

Phil’s hands, gently prying at Dean’s fingers.  “Honey,” he said.  “Look at me, c’mon.  I meant what I said.  I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Dean didn’t answer.  But eventually he let Phil pull his hands away from his face.  Looked up.  Saw Phil’s dark eyes, staring at him, concerned.  But changing, as they looked at Dean’s face, their expression focusing in.  Becoming intent.  Hunter’s eyes.

Dean watched this without surprise.  “How?” he asked tonelessly.  “How’re you plannin on doin that?”

Phil’s eyes on him.  “We’ll figure it out,”  he said. He’d been smiling slightly as he looked at Dean.  But then he met Dean’s eyes.  “Anything it takes.  Okay kiddo?”  He wasn’t smiling now.

Dean didn’t answer.  He looked away.

“Look,” Phil said eventually.  “You’re upset, I understand.   Maybe this is enough for today.  We’ll pick up on Friday.  Okay?  Kiddo?  We’ll talk about this.  Before Marv comes in.  Just make sure you get here a little early.” 

“So I still have my job?” Dean asked him quietly.

Phil smiled.  “Hell, yeah.  I’m not letting you go.”  He looked at Dean, serious now.  “I’m keeping you, Blondie.”

Dean sighed.  “Phil, I can’t-“

“No,” Phil said.  “You can.  Okay?  It’ll be okay, I promise.  We’ll talk Friday.”  He sighed.  “You gotta get out of here, kiddo.  Otherwise I’m takin my chances and putting you over that desk like I want to.  I only have so much patience left in me.”

Dean looked at him.

Phil smiled (sort of).  “Just kidding,” he said.  “We’ll save that for another time.” 

Then he leaned forward and kissed Dean on the forehead again.  Very gently.  Dean closed his eyes.  He felt his face twist.  “Phil,” he whispered.  “Don’t.  I can’t.  Please.”

“Why not?” Phil murmured.  “I love kissin you Blondie.  I’ve been waiting to.  My whole life.  It’s like…you were made, just for me.”

“Phil,” Dean whispered, painfully.  He hadn’t opened his eyes.  “No more.  Please.”

And fell silent.

“…Okay,” Phil said eventually.  “Okay honey.  We’ll talk later.  You go enjoy your Christmas with your brother.”  He was stuffing something into Dean’s front jeans pocket.  The hundred dollar bills.  “I’ll be thinkin about you,” Phil said.  His arms were around Dean again.  “You think about me, okay?” he said.  “Think about how I’ll take care of you.”  Rocking Dean, gently.  “In all the ways you need,” he whispered.

Dean stood there, letting the older man hold him.  It was so easy to stand there, to lean forward against that strong, warm body, Phil so sure of himself, so intent on getting his way.  

Was this how Sam felt?  That it was just easier sometimes, to go along with what Dean wanted? 

Dean was shaking again.

“Put your arms around me,” Phil whispered. 

Dean put his arms around Phil’s waist. 

Phil, rocking him.  “Honey,” he whispered.  His cock was rubbing against Dean again.  “Shit.”  Phil’s voice roughening.  “You’re so fucking hot.”

Dean letting Phil hold him.  “Put your head back down,” Phil whispered.  Dean dropped his head onto Phil’s shoulder.  “That’s it,” Phil said.  “That’s gonna be _your_ shoulder, Blondie, from now on.  Okay?  You lean on me, just like that.  Whenever you want.  You think about that.  Okay?”  Phil’s hands were up under Dean’s jacket, rubbing his back.  His lips nuzzling Dean’s neck.  “You think about that Blondie,” he whispered.  “Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean whispered back.  He was leaning forward again, leaning into Phil, letting the man take his weight, like he’d offered.   Letting himself.  For just another moment.

“Okay, what?” Phil said.

“I’ll think about it,” Dean whispered. 

Phil caressing him.  “You do that.”  Kissing Dean between the eyes, Dean’s eyes closing.  Kissing Dean on his eyelids.  Stepping back.  “Look at me Blondie.”

Dean opened his eyes. 

“See you Friday,” Phil said.  “Okay?”

Dean looked back at him. 

Phil, standing there quietly, gazing at Dean with this _soft_ look, so unexpected on Phil’s hard face with its narrow dark eyes, cynical most times but not now.  Phil, gazing at Dean, tenderly.

But still with intention.  Phil intent on getting what he wanted.    

And Dean saw him suddenly.  Phil, when he was Dean’s age.  A tough, scared, eighteen year old kid, dropped into the lethal green battlefields of Vietnam.  Determined to survive and eventually a survivor, discovering in himself what it took to be that, and none of it pretty.  But coming to terms with it, eventually.  And Dean saw that kid eventually recognizing something _else_ about himself, something secret and important.  And coming to terms with that too, and _doing_ something about it, with a freedom inspired by mortal danger. 

And later, Phil slipping back into civilian life, running his business, raising his family.  Leaving that kid he’d been behind, abandoned, because there was no place for him anymore, that dangerous, courageous other self, no context.  No vital connection.

Until Dean showed up, a quarter century later.

And Phil recognizing in Dean someone who spoke the language of that abandoned kid, so hungry for company after years and years of silence.  Recognizing Dean.  And wanting him.

_(I’ve been waiting to kiss you.  My whole life)_

Wanting Dean with an intensity that made other things irrelevant.

Like your basic ethics.  Or _any_ (taboo) boundary really, including _Dean’s_ opinion about the situation. 

_(It’s like you were made, just for me)_

_(Don’t fight this)_

Dean saw this.  And he understood it, actually.  He understood where Phil was coming from. 

_(You raised me to be yours)_

Sam had said that to him.  A long time ago, when him and Dean had kissed for the first time.  And he’d said that to Dean so hurtfully, bitterly.

And Dean denying it.  Not wanting to hear it.

But it was true, Dean had understood that, eventually.  And he’d decided not to fight it.  Or maybe he’d just realized he couldn’t, not if he and Sam were to continue to exist together. 

He just didn’t know, anymore.

Not knowing. 

Exhaustion again, on the edge of Dean’s awareness, just waiting to take him over.  But he wasn’t letting it, this time.

Phil standing in front of him, quietly.

So Dean looked at him.  Looked at Phil with a steady, concentrated gaze, taking the sight of him in.  “See you,” he replied.

And then he stepped forward.  Wrapped his arms around Phil and kissed him, for all he was worth.  Phil startled.  But then he turned to Dean like he was a warm flame.  “See you,” Dean murmured to him.  And he licked Phil’s mouth.  Gave him some tongue.  Rubbed his cock back and forth between Phil’s legs.  And kissed him again, seekingly, expertly, the same way he’d kiss Sam.  Giving Phil something to remember.

Because he wasn’t coming back.

So Dean kissed Phil like he was dying for him, like Phil’s mouth was water and food and air to him.  Licking Phil’s mouth, stroking Phil’s lips with his tongue, and Phil gasping now.  Dean’s hand came up, sliding between Phil’s legs, folding around his cock, working that cock with fingers and thumb like he knew how to do.  _“Shit,”_ Phil gasped and he grabbed Dean’s arms, started to push him towards the desk.  

Dean broke Phil’s hold easily.  He stepped away.  Gazed at Phil for another moment.  The older man standing there helplessly, staring back at him, agonized.  “Blondie-“

“See ya, Phil,” Dean said.  “Merry Christmas.”

And then he got out of there, moving fast. 

Now driving home to Sam, over darkening winter roads.

Dean going well over the speed limit, gripping the steering wheel tightly.  Normally he’d have the radio blasting at full volume.  But not this time.

Up a hill.  Down.  Around a curve.  Up another hill then down and then the little bridge.  Dean sped up, aiming his car towards the narrow opening of the bridge like a bullet.  Shot through.  And then up and around a curve again.  And another one.  Fuck, this road was awesome.

Dean was crying.

Tears flooding his eyes suddenly, blinding him.  He wiped them away, uselessly.  They kept coming.

Dean pulled over.  He opened the door, stumbled out of the car.  Staggered off to one side, falling to his knees.  Sick, he was sick.  He vomited by the side of the road.  Stayed there for a moment, on his knees, gasping.

Then slowly got up.  Walked back to the car and leaned on it.  Stared out over the silent winter landscape, the fields deep with snow, lavender in the dusk, dark forest in the distance.  Soon to be heading towards that forest, towards his and Sam’s little shack in the woods, towards Sam, waiting for him.

Dean was crying again.

Tears running down his face, stinging in the bitter winter air.  Dean wiped them away.

Fucked up.

He'd fucked up, so bad. 

This was so bad. 

What had happened with Phil.  Dean couldn’t even _think_ about it.  He couldn’t think about it.  Or he would throw up again.

He’d never be able to go back there.  Not even to collect his pay.  And he couldn’t, he couldn’t see even _seeing_ Phil again, not even from a distance.  And couldn’t see Phil laying eyes on _him_ again either, couldn’t bear that thought either.

Phil, kissing him on the forehead, with Dean in his arms shaking.  No.  No.

And Sam, Jesus, Sam.  Going back to _Sam_ after what had happened, Dean dry humping that older man (his _boss),_ like a slut, _negotiating_ with that asshole for a lousy minimum wage job, _kissing him,_ even, Jesus, _fuck._   No. 

Dean couldn’t be here anymore.  They’d have to leave this particular part of the US of A forever.  Because he couldn’t take the chance of running into Phil again, ever.  Because he might kill him.

And Sam, having to give Sam the news they were leaving.  And _why._   Fuck.  No.  How was he going to face Sam again? 

Dean slammed his fist against the roof of the car, hitting the cold metal, painfully.  Then bent over, resting his forehead there.

Took a breath.  Then another one.

Sam.  Sam would be getting worried soon.  And their cell phones didn’t work way out in the woods, Sam couldn’t call him.  Dean had to get back.  He just needed to get himself under control.

A plan.  He needed a plan.

Okay.  Three hundred bucks, cash.  Well, that was something.  And forty more in Dean’s wallet (and Sam had maybe ten).  And they’d just bought groceries on Saturday, they still had plenty of food (although Sam was going through that fast).  And there was gas in the car, Dean had just filled up yesterday (Phil selling it to him at cost, like he was doing Dean a _favour,_ the cheapskate). 

So.  Food.  Gas.  And a little money.  Enough to buy them some time to figure things out.  And maybe there was somewhere else around here that Dean could get a job, not in _town,_ but near enough that Sam wouldn’t have to switch schools.  Maybe Dean could…find work on a farm or something (that thought wasn’t appealing at _all)._  

Or there was always going back to a roadhouse.  Dean could always do that.

Dean felt nausea, rising in his gut again. 

Phil’s voice.  “ _Givin me that eye…tough talkin blonde kid…missing his daddy…”_

Yeah.  No.  Dean didn’t think he could take dealing with another mark.  Not without his dad around to keep things under control.  Because if things went _wrong_ …and that mark laid hands on him…said something…upsetting…Dean just might kill that fucking asshole, too.

Dean leaned against the car, his chest heaving.  He crossed his arms on top of the car’s roof and rested his head on them.  Closed his eyes.

But.

_(We’ll make it.  Somehow)_

He’d said that.  To Sam.  When he’d promised Sam they’d stay.  And Sam’s eyes on him, so hopeful.

Dean felt the cold metal of the car’s roof against his cheek.  He placed his hands on it, palms down, deliberately letting the cold sink into them too.  Took another breath.

Cold.  He could do this.  Approach things with a cold mind.  Like his dad did, like his dad expected him to.  And Dean was _fine_ on a hunt, he could deal with _any_ shit that went down.  That’s why his dad wanted him there.  So if _that_ was the case…he could deal with it in _regular_ life too.  Like now.

He could go out again.  If he had to.  Find another roadhouse, play the blonde, pool hustling angel.  If he had to.  He wouldn’t kill anybody.

Because of Sam.  Dean had made a promise to his brother and he was going to keep it.  He was going to give Sam what their dad hadn’t, and hadn’t ever cared to.  He’d _promised_ Sam that (and he’d told his _dad_ he’d promised Sam too, and Dean wasn’t about to have his dad saying ‘I told you so’).

So if he had to…he’d go out, find himself another mark (or two, or three).  He’d just do it, and fuck it already.  It’s not like anything could get much worse than what he’d just dealt with, with Phil.

(Phil, holding him, murmuring to him, Dean crying).  No.

He wasn’t going to think about that (like ever, again).  And he wasn’t going to worry about going back to a roadhouse, either.  Not yet.

One step at a time.

First of all, he was going to get home to Sam.  And not say anything.  Let Sam have a nice Christmas, even if it was just the two of them (and anyways, their dad still might show, hopefully in a good mood).  They’d deal with the job situation later.  And maybe…Dean wouldn’t have to say anything anyways.  He’d pretend to go into the garage on Friday like normal and spend the day looking for work.  He might be able to get something lined up by the time Sammy was back to school, and then he’d just tell Sam that he’d decided that working at the garage wasn’t for him.  Sam would never have to know what really happened.

Yeah.  That sounded like a reasonable plan.

Dean took another breath.  Then got back in the car and drove off towards home.

Pulling up to the shack, twenty minutes later.  Seeing the fat grey plume of smoke from the stovepipe, lifting into the dark blue sky.  Sam had the stove going strong.

Dean opened the door, stepped in.  His eyes immediately went to Sam, who was sitting on the bed. 

Shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers.  And he was shaving his legs.

Dean closed the door behind him quietly.  Sam looked up.  Smiled.  “Hey.”

“Hey,” Dean said.  He took off his boots.  Took off his jacket, laying it over the back of a chair.  Went over to the counter where the Dewars was, and poured himself a drink, took a healthy swallow.  Turned back to watch Sam, the drink in his hand.

Sam’s head was bent over one long leg.  He was concentrating.

“You should use the shavin cream,” Dean said after a moment. 

“Too messy to use on the bed,” Sam said.  “I just wet the skin down.”  He gestured to a dishtowel in a damp crumple on the floor nearby.  Then ran his hand down his leg, gleaming pale in the dim light.  “Works just fine.  See?”

Dean put his drink down and came over.  He sat down on the bed beside Sam.  Laid his hand on Sam’s leg and rubbed it.  “Yeah,” he said eventually.  “Works just fine.”

Sam had flopped back on the bed.  His eyes were closed, a blissed out expression on his face.  “Rub more,” he said. 

Dean smiled.  “Okay princess,” he said.  Both his hands were on Sam’s legs now, rubbing them slowly, thoroughly, the skin under Dean’s palms like satin.

“Mmmm,” Sam murmured.  He lay there limply, hands behind his head, absorbing this.  “Do my feet too,” he said.

Dean’s hands moved to one long, narrow foot, pulling it into his lap.  He dug his thumbs into the instep, circling, pressing down.

 _“Oh,”_ Sam said.  “Oh yeah, that’s it.  That’s it, Dean.  Oh.”  He hadn’t opened his eyes.

Dean rubbed Sam’s foot, massaging it thoroughly. Then he picked up Sam’s other foot, already nudged into Dean’s lap, waiting eagerly beside the first one.  “Mmmm, oh,” Sam said.  Dean glanced at him.  Sam was wriggling his butt around, squirming gently on the bed.  He’d put one hand on his stomach,  dangerously close to his cock, which was hard, Dean saw, standing stiffly up under the fabric of his boxers.

Dean released Sam’s foot and leaned over, leaned all the way up over those long satiny limbs and put his face against Sam’s cloth covered cock.  Put his mouth over Sam’s cock.  Mouthed him, gently.

Sam’s breath, hissing.  “Dean,” he whispered.  He thrust his cock up against Dean’s mouth.  “Put me in your mouth,” he said.

Dean, mouthing him.  He turned to rub his cheek against this warm, delicious part of Sammy.  Then put his mouth over the damp fabric again.  “I am,” he murmured.

Sam’s hiss of frustration.  A hand, burying itself in Dean’s hair.  “All the way in.  C’mon-“

“What do you say?” Dean whispered to him.  Mouthing him.

“Please,” Sam whispered.  “Please Dean…god…”  Both hands in Dean’s hair now.

Dean put his hands into the flap at the front of Sam’s boxers and drew Sam’s cock through the opening.  Stared down at Sam’s long, hard cock, smooth satin under Dean’s fingers.  Dean started to put his lips over that cock, but then stopped.  He laid his face down, resting it on Sam’s cock.  Closed his eyes.

“…Dean?”

“Give me a minute,” Dean said. 

Lying there, silently.

“Dean…” Sam’s hands in his hair.  Yanking on it.  “C’mon…”

Dean sighed.  “Okay you little brat.  Jesus.”  And then he pulled Sam’s cock strongly into his mouth, sucking on it, rubbing his tongue hard up and down its length, Sam immediately moaning, arching up.

And Dean working him, working that cock until Sam was whimpering, his hands buried in Dean’s hair, pulling on it, hurting Dean slightly, but Dean didn’t care.  He closed his mouth glove tight around Sam’s cock, the smooth plum head of Sam’s cock pushing insistently against the roof of his mouth, Dean moving his head rapidly back and forth, Sam’s cock pulsing now, pulsing under his tongue, Sam shuddering, and then coming, releasing into Dean’s mouth, crying out.

Dean swallowed his brother’s come, that familiar, salty liquid, the delicious, precious taste of Sam.  Then he undid Sam’s fingers from his hair, stood up and walked back to the kitchen counter.  Poured himself another shot of Dewars.  Turned to look at Sam on the bed.

Sam lying there, staring at him.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“You comin back here?”

Dean drained the glass of Dewars and poured himself another one.  Saw Sam’s eyes, on this.

“Not right now,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna make dinner.  You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, after a moment.  “I guess.”

Dean turned away from him and opened the fridge, peering in.  “What d’you want?” he said.  “I c’n fry up those steaks maybe.  Put on some mac’n’cheese.   Sound good for Christmas Eve, Sammy?”  He didn’t look at Sam as he asked this.  He straightened up and drained the glass of Dewars again.

“Sure,” Sam said quietly.

Dean was unwrapping the steaks.  “Be ready soon.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  Dean heard rustling noises as Sam got himself up and dressed.  “You want any help?”

“Check the stove has enough wood,” Dean said.  He didn’t turn around.

“Okay,” Sam said.

A few minutes later, Dean was standing over the stove, frying up two steaks in the cast iron frying pan. A pot of macaroni starting to boil, beside it.

“Sam, get the cheese out,” Dean said.  He was looking at the steaks critically.  Sam liked his medium rare and Dean liked his bloody rare.  Not much longer, this stove was wicked hot when it really got going.  He heard the fridge door open.  “You want me to grate it?” Sam asked.

 _“Grate_ it?” Dean asked.  “With _what?”_   (A cheese grater wasn’t among their meagre selection of kitchen utensils).

“Okay, I meant cut it up into little pieces, _Jesus,_ Dean.”  Sam sounded grumpy now. 

“Sure,” Dean said.  He was checking the steak with a fork. 

Silence.  Dean heard Sam’s knife chopping.  He flipped his steak over and checked Sam’s.  Yup, soon.  He stuck his fork into the pot of macaroni and stirred it.

Sam’s steps behind him.  Then his brother’s arms around his waist.  Sam’s chin on his shoulder, silky hair tickling.

“Hey,” Sam whispered.  Embracing Dean from behind, his brother’s warm chest pressed against Dean’s back.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m fine.”  Stirred the pot of macaroni.

“You seem kinda down,” Sam said.

“Just missin Dad, I guess,” Dean said.  “Haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

“You haven’t called him?” Sam asked. 

“He told me _not_ to, remember?” Dean said.

“…No,” Sam said.  “I didn’t know that, you didn’t say anythin about _that_ to me, Dean.”

“Oh,” Dean said.  Didn’t say anything else.  He pulled his steak off the stove and flipped it onto a plate.  Checked Sam’s steak again.  Sam had stepped back slightly, giving Dean some room to maneuver but now he moved in close again, putting his arms back around Dean’s waist.  He put his lips to the back of Dean’s neck and kissed his nape.  Dean felt Sam’s nose, nuzzling into his hair.  He closed his eyes, briefly.

“…Well…he could still show,” Sam said after a moment.  Those smooth lips, brushing Dean’s skin.

Dean snorted.  “Yeah.  He could.”  Then he sighed, aiming for a happier tone.  “Unlikely by now though.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “You’re probably right.  That’s okay though, right Dean?  I don’t mind it bein just us.”  And he reached his head around and kissed Dean’s cheek.  Put his arms around Dean a little closer.  Started rocking him, slightly.

Dean froze.  “Sam…I gotta concentrate here.  Okay?  You’re interferin.”

Sam let go of him.  “Jeez.  _Sorry._ I’ll leave you to it then.”

Dean felt badly.  What was he doing?  He didn’t want a fight.  Not with _Sam_ and not _now,_ for Chrissakes.  But he didn’t answer.  Didn’t turn around.  He bent his head over the frying pan, silently.

But then Sam’s hands, on his shoulders.  “Dean…”

“What?”

“I was missin you today,” Sam whispered.  “I’m glad you’re back.”  And Sam’s lips on the back of his neck then lower, Sam dipping his head, kissing Dean between his shoulder blades.

Dean closed his eyes again for a moment.  Then he checked Sam’s steak.  Yup, looked good.  He flipped it onto a plate.  Checked the macaroni.  Ready to go.  “Got that cheese done?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  His hands were still on Dean’s shoulders.  “I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you too,” Dean said.  “Watch out.”  He picked up a dishtowel and wrapped it around the handle of the pot holding the macaroni.  Carried the pot over to the sink and flipped it over the wire mesh strainer that Sam had picked up the last time they’d been to Walmart.  Drained the water out and dumped the macaroni back in the pot.  Turned to the plate with the (generous) mound of cheese Sam had cut up for them.  “Guess we should probably put some butter in with this,” he said.  “Get it out of the fridge, Sammy?”

Sam opened the fridge and brought the butter over to Dean.  Dean took it from him and cut a hunk off.  Stirred it into the pot, along with the cheese. 

Dean, stirring.  Sam standing behind him again, his arms around Dean’s waist.  “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the best,” Sam whispered.  “I love you.”

Dean, stirring the macaroni.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  Sam sounded irritated now.  “What’s _with_ you?  Jesus.”

Dean sighed.  “I’m sorry Sammy.  Had a bad day.”

“Well it’s _over,_ okay?” Sam said.  And his hands, snaking around Dean’s hips to fold over his cock, Sam moving in, crowding close up to Dean from behind.  He was rocking Dean slightly again.  “You’re back with _me_ now…”  And those smooth lips on Dean’s skin, kissing him.  Sam’s tongue, lightly touching the back of Dean’s neck.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  Tears were in his eyes suddenly but he blinked them away, not wanting Sam to see.  He let his head fall back, allowing Sam to nuzzle him like his brother clearly wanted to.

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice was different.

Dean’s eyes were closed.  “What?”

“What’s _that_ on your neck?”

“What?”

“You’ve got a _bruise_ on the side of your neck, Dean!  ‘N’ what looks like _bitemarks!_   And _I_ sure as fuck didn’t put ‘em there!”

Dean went cold.  “I-“

Sam spun him around.  Dean looked up.  Sam standing there, glaring _down_ at him, Jesus, Sam _taller_ than him suddenly, by at least an inch, when had _that_ happened?

“What the fuck _is_ that, Dean?”  Sam was yelling at him.  He was glaring into Dean’s face. 

Dean swallowed.  “It’s-“ he stopped.

_“What?”_

Dean didn’t answer.

 _“What,_ Dean?”  Sam yelling.  He took Dean by the shoulders and shook him.

All the strength went out of Dean suddenly.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  “Stop.”

Sam shook him again, violently.  “Not until you tell me what _the fuck that is!”_

Dean looked at him.  Then he abruptly covered his face with his hands.  “Sam,” he whispered.  “Stop.”

Sam let go of him.

Dean stood there silently, his hands covering his face.

“Dean?”

Dean didn’t respond.

Sam’s hands, prying at his fingers.  “Dean.  Don’t do that okay?  You’re scarin me.”

Dean took a breath, looked up.  Sam, gazing down at him, upset.  He was still holding Dean’s hands.  Dean’s face twisted.  He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of his brother’s face.

“I can’t,” he said.  “I can’t…”

“Dean?”

“I can’t _talk_ about it Sammy,” Dean said.  “Don’t ask me, okay?  Nothin happened, I promise.”

Sam, holding his hands.  “Well _somethin_ happened.  And what do you _mean,_ I can’t ask you?  You’ve got fuckin _hickies_ on your neck Dean!  Who were you foolin around with?”

“Nobody,” Dean said.  “I mean- nobody I _wanted_ to, okay?  I mean…it wasn’t me.  I wasn’t the one doin it.”

“I _know_ that, asshole,” Sam said.  “You weren’t the one kissin your own neck.  Who was doin it?”

Dean was silent.

Sam’s voice.   _“Who!_   _Dean!”_

“Sam, I didn’t want to,” Dean whispered.

“Uh huh,” Sam’s voice was ugly.  “You didn’t want to, so you just stood still for it?  Jesus, Dean, there’s marks all over you.”

“I didn’t realize,” Dean said.  “I forgot.  I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Sorry for _what?”_ Sam said.  “Sorry you did that?  Or sorry I found out?”

“Both,” Dean said quietly.  He’d opened his eyes but hadn’t looked up.  He stared down at his hands, held tightly in his brother’s hands.  Sam was furious with him, Dean could see that.  But he hadn’t let go of him.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  Tears in his eyes again.  “I’m so sorry.”

Sam, silent.  Then he said, “Let’s sit down.”  He pulled Dean over to one of the chairs, Dean letting him, silently.  Sam sat him down, then pulled other chair around to face him.  He sat down too, his elbows on his knees.  Leaned close, peering into Dean’s face.

“So what _happened?”_ Sam asked him.

“I got hit on,” Dean replied.  He was looking down again.

 _“Hit_ on?” Sam said.  “By who?”

“Phil,” Dean said.

 _“Phil?_   Your _boss?”_

“Yeah.”

“What’d he _do?”_ Sam asked.

“He- “ Dean swallowed.  “He-“

_“What?”_

“He tried to fuck me,” Dean said.  “I fought him off.”

“…I hope you _creamed_ him,” Sam said, viciously. 

“I didn’t,” Dean whispered.  “I didn’t want to hurt him, have it turn into a big thing, you know?  Have the police showin up.  And I was tryin…I was thinkin…that maybe…we could sort things out.  So I could still work there.”

“He tried to… _rape_ you, and you tried to _sort things out?”_ Sam’s voice was incredulous.  “What the _fuck,_ Dean?”

“I know,” Dean whispered.  “It was stupid.  But…I kind of _liked_ that job, Sam.  You know?  Fixin cars…I didn’t want to leave it.”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “Well…so did you sort things out?  Like you _wanted?”_

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

Sam snorted.  “You let him do stuff to you, Dean.  Maybe not fuck you…but you sure let him kiss you.  The guy must’ve been all over you, to mark you up like that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Dean said. 

“Oh,” Sam said.  “I see.  So you _didn’t_ let him slobber all over your neck?”

“Sam!”

Sam sighed.  “Okay.  Fine.  So exactly how was it then?”

“It – he – he told me that if I just let him kiss me…one time…and it didn’t work…for me that is…he’d stop,” Dean said.  “And I could still work there.  I could keep my job and he’d leave me alone.  No hard feelins.”

Sam looked at him.  “And you _believed him?”_

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.  “I did.”

“So you let him kiss you,” Sam said.  “To show him he was bein an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  “I did.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then said, “So did it work?”

“Did what work?” Dean asked.

“After you showed him,” Sam said.  “Do you still have your job?  Is he gonna leave you alone now?”

“No,” Dean whispered.

 _“No?”_ Sam said.  “No what?  Did that asshole end up _firing_ _you?”_  

“No,” Dean whispered.

“I don’t understand,” Sam said after a moment. 

“I still have my job,” Dean said. 

Sam looked at him.  Dean didn’t look back.

“And he’s plannin on gettin you ‘n’ me a place in town,” Dean said.  His voice was raw.  “Next week.  And he said he’d help me get my mechanic’s license.”

Sam looked at him.  _“What?”_ he said.

Dean looked down at his hands.

 _“Why?”_ Sam asked.

“Because I-“ Dean stopped.

“What did you _do?”_ Sam said.

“I- ” Dean dropped his face back into his hands.  “I can’t – I didn’t - I don’t know what I did.  But he…he wants me to…be with him now, Sammy.  Not just to fuck him.  To like… _be_ with him.”

“…In a relationship,” Sam said. 

“Yeah.”

“Like a _boyfriend,”_ Sam said. 

Dean winced.  “Don’t say that, Sammy, Jesus.”

Sam was quiet.  “Wow,” he said, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He stayed looking down.

Sam didn’t answer immediately. 

But then he said, “Isn’t he a little… _old_ for you, Dean?”  And his voice was sarcastic now.

Dean looked up, glared at him.  “Sammy!  Don’t fuckin say stuff like that!”

Sam glared back.  “Why not?  The guy sounds like he’s plannin long term.  _Age_ ’ll start to make a difference.”

Dean looked away.  “Shut the fuck up, Sammy.  It’s bad enough without you sayin shitty stuff like that to me.  It’s not like I don’t _already_ feel like shit.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was looking down at his hands again.

“So what did you say?” Sam asked eventually.  “Thanks, but no thanks?”

“I tried,” Dean said.

“You _tried?”_   Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean, you _tried?”_  Sam said.  His voice had risen.  “It’s pretty fuckin simple, Dean – you just say yes or no!”

“I _tried,_ Sammy,” Dean said.  “I told him that I couldn’t.”

“…That you _couldn’t,”_ Sam repeated.

“Yeah.”

“That you _couldn’t,”_   Sam said.  “Not that you didn’t _want_ to.  That you _couldn’t.”_

“….Yeah,” Dean said.

“So did you say _why?”_ Sam’s voice whipped at him like a lash.  “That it would be _awkward,_ fuckin him at the same time you’re fuckin _me?”_

“Sammy!”

“Well why did you say you _couldn’t,_ Dean?”  And Sam’s voice was high suddenly, like a child’s.  “Like you _would_ if you could.  Did you _want_ to?  Do you _want_ to be with that guy?”

 _“No,”_ Dean said.  He met Sam’s eyes.  “No.”

Sam, staring at him.  “So why didn’t you tell him that?”  he asked eventually.

Dean looked away.  “I don’t know,” he said.

“Why _not?”_   Sam was yelling at him again.  “What the fuck’s the _matter_ with you, Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer.

_“Dean!”_

“I don’t _know,”_ Dean whispered.  He’d closed his eyes.  “I wish I’d handled things differently,” he said.  “I feel real bad about it Sammy.  The whole thing.”

And he remembered.  Phil’s voice.

_(You’re feelin it.  You want this, Blondie)_

Dean was suddenly bent over, leaning forward in the chair.  His hands were over his head, his face pressed against his knees.  “I feel so bad,” he said, the words muffled.  “I feel so bad Sammy.  I feel, I feel so _bad.”_   He was crying suddenly, but without tears, just dry sobs, racking him.  “Fuck,” Dean gasped.  “ _Fuck!”_ His chest, heaving for air, painfully.

Sam didn’t say anything.

Dean couldn’t sit up.  Dizzy, he was dizzy.  He clenched his knuckles into his hair, pulling on it, hard.  The pain, centering him.

 _(“Just let me…”  he’d said to Phil/No)._   No _._  

Dizzy again.  Nausea, rising.  Dean rolled his head.

“I feel sick, Sam,” he muttered.  “I feel fuckin sick.”

Sam, silent.  But eventually he said, “Throw up sick?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  He didn’t raise his head.  Dizzy.  And his stomach, Jesus.  He took a breath.  Then another one, carefully.

“You want me to get you somethin to throw up in?” Sam asked him.

And Dean heard the sound of his brother’s voice.  Concerned, but also practical, Sam focusing right in on the immediate, practical thing, like both him and Dean were used to doing (a necessity, growing up with their dad). 

Dean felt a bubble of laughter rising in his chest.  In spite of everything.  Sammy, little brother.  And breathing, he was breathing.  Deep breaths, slowing. 

“No,” Dean said eventually.  Breathing.  “I’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Sam said quietly. 

Dean was quiet too.  Eventually he sat up.  He still didn’t look at Sam though.  He looked down at his hands.

Bad.  He felt bad.  He was never going to look at Sam again.

But then Sam’s voice.

“It’s okay Dean,” Sam said.  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”  And his voice was soft now.  Not angry anymore. 

Dean felt tears rising, tightening his chest.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  Didn’t look up.  “I wish –I wish…” He stopped speaking.

“…That you’d done things different,” Sam finished for him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  His chest was tight, painful.  “I wish I’d just walked outa there,” he said.  “Just as soon as he started.  I knew what he was doin right when he called me in his office.  Before he got out the money, even.”

“What money?” Sam asked.

“Oh.  This.”  Dean pulled the three, hundred dollar bills out of his pocket and handed them to Sam.  “That’s for you,” he said.  “Phil said it was a Christmas bonus.  Buy you a present.”  Sam took the money without comment.  “But then he said I had to suck his _cock_ for it,” Dean said.  His face twisted.  “It was my fault, Sammy.  I shoulda just fuckin _walked out!_ I _tried._ ”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“I fucked up so bad,” Dean said quietly.

“Sounds like you were tryin to manage things,” Sam said, after a moment.  “And it got out of hand.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Way out of hand.”  He was silent.

Sam was silent too.

“I c’n never go back there,” Dean continued, eventually.  “I c’n never – he – he ended up bein _nice_ to me, Sammy.  He was -he was like – _genuine._ At the end.”

“…At the end of _what?”_ Sam asked.

“I can’t…I can’t-“ Dean swallowed.  The dizziness had returned.  He shut his eyes.  Darkness,  spinning.  “I can’t-“

“-It’s okay,” Sam said.  “Never mind.”

Dean, silent.

“Forget I asked,” Sam said.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.

“It’s okay,” Sam said again.  Then suddenly his hand was on Dean’s knee, squeezing it.  “You don’t have to go back there, Dean.  Ever.”

“I can’t,” Dean said quietly. 

“He really got to you huh,” Sam said.  “That asshole.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “And I didn’t see it _comin,_ Sammy, I swear.”  His chest was heaving again.

“It’s okay Dean,” Sam repeated.  He patted Dean’s knee.  His voice was soft.  “You don’t have to deal with him ever again.”  Dean nodded.  He felt relief suddenly, like a cool hand on his forehead.  Sam understood.  Understood, without Dean having to say things he couldn’t bear to say, could barely _think_ about, even.

_(Dean, leaning forward into Phil’s arms, shaking)_

_(Just let me do this)_  

No.

No, forget it.  It was over. 

“It sucks, though,” Dean said.  He sighed.  “He still owes me a paycheque that I’m never gonna see.”  Dean looked up, saw Sam’s eyes on him.  Dean looked away.  “That three hundred dollars – that’s gonna have to last us awhile Sammy.  Until I figure out another job.  Which’ll be tough around _here,_ especially _now,_ in the middle of winter.  And who’s gonna hire me?  I’m a highschool dropout, no work experience…that I c’n put on a resume that is, other than _Phil’s_ job, and I can’t use _that_ one now, can’t even imagine what _he’ll_ say, someone calls him for a reference.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“Looks like I’m gonna have to hit a roadhouse again,” Dean said.  He glanced at Sam briefly. 

“No,” Sam said.

“It’s the only way, Sam,” Dean said. 

“No,” Sam repeated.

“It’ll be okay,” Dean said.  “And it’s better than takin the chance of runnin into Phil again.  I don’t know _how_ he’s gonna react, when I don’t show up on Friday like he’s expectin.  And if he tries to…convince me to come back…I don’t know how I’m gonna handle it.”  Dean closed his eyes suddenly.

 _(Phil, stroking his back, murmuring to him)._ No.

He opened his eyes.  Sam was looking at him thoughtfully.

“You think he’ll come after you?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied.  Then he sighed.  “Probably.”

“Well _fuck him,_ if he does,” Sam said.  “Let him try to get near you again.  You’ll knock him cold.  Or I will.”

“I just don’t – I don’t want that,” Dean said.  “Okay?  I don’t want to fight him.  And for _sure_ I don’t want _you_ to fight him.”  He looked Sam in the eye.  But then he was quiet.  “But I don’t know how…I don’t know _how_ I’m gonna deal with him.”  Dean had been looking at Sam as he said this, saw his brother’s eyes on him, watchful.  Dean looked away.  “I can’t see him again,” he said painfully.  “I can’t take the chance, Sammy.”

“Worried he’ll be _nice_ to you?” Sam said. 

Dean was confused.  “What?”

“Never mind,” Sam said.  He was quiet.  Then said, “You’re not gonna have to deal with him, Dean.  Ever again.  I mean that.  But you can’t let him prevent you from lookin for another job in _town,_ c’mon.  And I don’t want you goin back to a roadhouse.  It’s too risky without Dad there to back you up, and it’s not…good for you, anyways.  I wanted this time to be a break for you too, not just for me.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I mean…you’re not huntin, and you’re not hustling marks, either,” Sam said.  “You’re takin a break from the life, same as me.”

“Sam- “ Dean was frustrated.  “I-“

“-No,” Sam said.  “You’re not doin it, Dean.  I mean it.”

“Well what am I _supposed_ to do, then?” Dean said.  “You’re not thinkin straight, Sammy.  We need money if we’re gonna stay here.  Otherwise we pack up and go to Bobby’s.  Or join back up with Dad.”

 _“No,”_ Sam said.

“Well _what_ then?”  Dean asked.  “I don’t understand you.”

“First off,” Sam said, “You’re gettin paid.  You’re gettin that paycheque, on Friday.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Not with Phil expectin me to…” he stopped.  “Don’t ask me to, Sammy,” he said.

“I didn’t say _you_ were goin back,” Sam said.  _“I’m_ goin.  _I’m_ collectin it for you.”

Dean stared at him.  _“No,”_ he said, definitely.  “You’re _not.”_

“Sure I am,” Sam said.  He smiled.  “And then Phil ‘n’ me…we’re gonna have a little chat.”

 _“No_ , Sam,” Dean said.  His chest was heaving again.  “You’re not goin anywere _near_ him.  Forget it.”

“Yes I am,” Sam said.  “I’m drivin in, first thing Friday morning.”

 _“No,”_ Dean said again.  “You’re _not!”_

Sam looked at him.  “Why not?” he asked.

“Because you’re _not,_ that’s why,” Dean said.  “And if you _push_ me anymore more on this Sammy, we’re drivin out of here _tonight._   Not stoppin till we get to Bobby’s.  Fuck this whole thing.”

Sam looked at him.

Dean looked back.  “Don’t make me get out the handcuffs,” he said.

“Dean c’mon,” Sam said after a moment.  “Let me take care of this for you.”

Sam’s eyes on him.

_(Let me take care of this)_

_(for you)_

Dean felt his expression twist.  “No, Sam,” he said quietly.  “You can’t.  I’m not allowin you.  I mean it.  Don’t push me.”

Sam’s quiet eyes, on him. 

“I mean it, Sam,” Dean said.  He was upset now.  “The answer is _no.”_

Sam didn’t answer immediately.  But then he shrugged.  Said, “Okay.”

Dean let out a breath.  He’d been ready to spring up, he realized.  To grab Sam and lock him down.  Because his little brother wasn’t going anywhere _near_ a man like Phil.  Ever.

“Okay what?” he asked Sam.

“Okay I won’t do it,” Sam said.  “I won’t go.”

“Promise?” Dean said.  He was watching Sam carefully.

“Promise,”  Sam said.  “Pinky swear.”  He held up one pinky finger.

Dean looked at this.  Pinky swear, Jesus.

Sammy.

Little brother.

Dean opened his arms to him.  “C’mere,” he said.  “Come sit on me.”

Sam came over obligingly.  He settled himself down on Dean’s lap.

“Oof,” Dean said.  He’d folded his arms around Sam.  Who was towering over him, ridiculously.  “Shit, you’re big,” Dean said.  He looked up at Sam’s face.  “Heavy too.”

Sam grinned down at him.  “Well you _did_ ask,” he said.  He shifted his butt around, getting comfortable.  Then put his arms around Dean’s neck. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He pressed his face into his brother’s warm side, cozy under a soft cotton tshirt.  Felt Sam’s ribs, gently rising and falling.  “I did.  Don’t make me worry about you, Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “I mean it.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured.  He dropped his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.  “I won’t.”

“Thanks,” Dean whispered.

“Sure,” Sam whispered back.  Then he raised his head and turned slightly on Dean’s lap, so that he was facing him, staring down into Dean’s face.  Dean looked back.  Sam’s wide, changeable, long lashed eyes, gazing down at him. 

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam dipped his head.  Kissed Dean’s throat, very gently.

“What’re you doin?” Dean muttered.  His head had fallen back he noticed, as soon as Sam laid his mouth on him.

Sam’s lips, on his throat.  A very gentle, deliberate kiss.  Dean felt his own lips part.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  “What’re you _doin?”_

“Kissin you better,” Sam whispered back.  And then his lips, very gentle on Dean’s throat, on a mark, Dean realized, that had been left there by Phil.

Dean swallowed.  “Sammy,” he said.  “You don’t have to do that.”

“Sure I do,” Sam said.  “Those marks, they’re mine now.”  And his lips, feeding gently on the spot under Dean’s ear.  Dean’s eyes closed.  “Mine,” Sam murmured.  And his teeth, sinking gently into Dean’s neck.

 _“Sam,”_ Dean whispered.  He’d clutched his brother _hard,_ his fingers digging into Sam’s arms.  Sam didn’t appear to notice.

“All better now,” Sam whispered.  And his mouth, gentle on Dean’s neck.  But then he turned suddenly, straddling Dean in the chair.  Thrust his cock hard between Dean’s legs.

 _“Sam_ …what…” Dean said.  His head was tilted all the way back, his throat bared to Sam’s lips.  He felt the weight of Sam’s body on him suddenly, pressing deliciously down.

“Is _this_ what that asshole did to you?” Sam murmured.  Straddling Dean, sitting firmly on Dean’s cock, his hands on Dean’s shoulders.  Sam bent his head.  Another kiss on Dean’s throat, not so gentle this time.

“Sam…”

“What?” Sam asked, and then his mouth on Dean’s, his tongue thrusting between Dean’s lips.  “So is  _this_ what he did?” Sam asked again.  And his cock, rubbing hard between Dean’s legs.  “Tell me.”

“Yeah…” Dean said, agonized.  “Sammy please…”

Sam’s hand on his cock, palming him.  _“_ And _this_?  Was he doin _this?”_   And his fingers, working.

“Sam,” Dean whispered.  Sam’s touch on him, lighting him up, _fuck._   “Stop.  You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do big brother,” Sam whispered.  And now his hands, undoing Dean’s belt buckle.  Unzipping him, thrusting his hands into the opening.  Not so gently.

 _“Ouch!_ Sammy-“

“Shhh.”  And Sam’s mouth, covering Dean’s again.  His fingers, working themselves into Dean’s boxers, finding the bare flesh.

“Oh – Sam… _shit…”_

“Feel good big brother?” Sam whispered to him.  And _stroking_ him now, Sam’s fingers nimble despite their cramped position, stroking Dean expertly.

“Sammy!” Dean said.  He was shuddering.  “Stop it!  What the fuck are you _doin?”_

“I’m takin you back,” Sam whispered to him.  And _pulling_ on him, pulling on Dean’s cock with slick, merciless fingers.  And then his mouth, fastening on Dean’s throat _hard,_ Dean moaning now, he couldn’t help it.

Sam stood up.  He stood staring down at Dean, sprawled back in the chair.

Dean looked up.  “Sam-“

Those weird coloured eyes, staring down at him.  “Lift up your butt,” Sam said.

“What-“

“Do it, Dean!”  Sam snapped.

Dean lifted his butt up off the chair.  Sam was immediately on him, ripping his jeans and shorts down his legs.  Not gently.

 _"Ouch!_   _Shit,_ Sammy!”

But suddenly Sam was kneeling between his legs, his mouth fastened over Dean’s cock.

“Sam!”

But Sam ignoring this, kneeling between Dean’s legs, his hot mouth _engulfing_ Dean’s cock now, fastened around it so tight and wet, Sam’s rough kitten tongue working Dean’s cock, every nerve end in Dean’s cock crackling under the rough rub of that tongue.

Sam pulled his head back.  Pulled Dean’s cock back _hard._   “Sam!  _Shit!”_ Dean gasped.  And thrusting up into Sam’s mouth, helplessly.

Sam didn’t move.  After a moment, Dean looked down.  He met Sam’s eyes.  His brother was staring up at him, his face distorted by the mouthful of Dean’s cock.  He stared up at Dean silently.  Dean stared back, appalled and fascinated.  But then Sam bent his head, his face hidden now by a tumble of hair.  He started working Dean’s cock again, his head moving rapidly back and forth.

Dean moaning.

His hands, clutched in Sam’s hair.

Moaning helplessly, and then that pulse of white hot electric pleasure, shooting through his cock, uncontrollable. 

Releasing, coming into Sam’s mouth. 

 _“Sammy…”_ and his brother’s name on Dean’s lips like it always was, like pleasure like this couldn’t exist without the sound of his own voice, speaking Sam’s name.

Sam stood up.  He wiped a hand over his lips.  Stared down at Dean laying sprawled back in the chair, his jeans and shorts around his ankles, gazing up at Sam, exhausted.

“So how was that?” Sam asked him.

“It was- “ Dean stopped, looking up at Sam’s eyes.  Which were gazing at him, unblinking.  “It was incredible Sammy, you know that,” Dean said after a moment.  “Your mouth, Jesus.  I die under it, every time.”

“So _that’s_ what you’ll remember,” Sam said.  “About today.”

“…What?” Dean asked. 

“That’s what you’ll remember,” Sam repeated.  “Not anythin else.  Only that.”

Dean, staring at him.

“Say it!” Sam snapped.

Dean, staring.  “That’s what I’ll remember,” he said. 

“About today,” Sam said.  Looked at him.

“About today,” Dean repeated, quietly.

Sam nodded.  “So _when_ you go back to town…and _if_ you run into that asshole…” he said, “you’re not gonna care.  Because the _only_ thing you’re gonna remember about today was _that.”_ And his eyes on Dean, steady.  “My mouth, on you.  _That.  That’s_ what you’re gonna remember.  And nothin else.” 

Sam’s weird, compelling eyes, always changing with the light, sometimes green, sometimes gray-blue, sometimes brown.  Now staring down at Dean, their colour a dull coppery yellow in the dim light of the room.  “Say it!” Sam said.

“That’s what I’m gonna remember,” Dean whispered.  Staring into those eyes.

“Remember _what?,”_ Sam said.  “Say it to me.”

“I’m gonna remember your mouth on me,” Dean whispered.   

“That’s right,” Sam said.  “And _nothin_ that asshole _does_ or _says_ is gonna have a hold on you anymore.”  Sam looked at him.  “Because of _that,”_ he said.  Staring at Dean.  “ _Nothin._   Got it?”

“I got it,” Dean whispered.

“Because _this_ is what matters,” Sam said.  And then he reached down, took Dean’s hand.  Placed it on his stomach, under his tshirt, against the bare skin.  “ _This_ ,” Sam said.  And holding Dean’s hand against himself.  _“_ The only thing.”

“The only thing,” Dean said.  His brother’s warm body, the satiny skin, under his hand.  Dean, looking up at his face.  Sam.  Sammy.  SamSam.  “The only thing,” Dean repeated. 

And he felt something lifting up inside him.  Lifting him up, like a balloon. 

Nothing, nothing mattering to him in life but this, this person, standing in front of him. 

And that thought, like freedom. 

“Only you, Sammy,” Dean said.

And Sam staring at him, smiling slightly now.  Then he bent down.  Put his face between Dean’s legs.  Kissed Dean’s bare, wet cock.  “That asshole see this?” he murmured.

“No,” Dean said.  His hands were in Sam’s hair.  “I didn’t let him, Sam.  I would never.”

“Only _I_ get to to see this,” Sam said.  He kissed Dean’s cock again.

“Only you,” Dean whispered.  He’d closed his eyes.

“Cause it’s _mine,”_ Sam said.

Dean grinned.  Sam sounded like he was about five.

“All yours,” Dean said.  “Brat.”

Sam, nuzzling him.  Then straightening up.  “I’m hungry,” he said.  “Let’s eat.”

Dean stood up.  “Steak’s cold by now.”   He’d pulled up his jeans, he was buckling his belt.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said.  “Ketchup’ll fix anythin.”

Dean laughed.

Later, after dinner, going out into the icy night, deciding to build a snowman under the dark arch of the sky, the stars twinkling down.  And then a snowball fight, both of them hooting with laughter.

And a nice laid-back day the next day, snuggling in bed for most of the time, Dean occasionally getting up to re-build the fire, both of them naked, not bothering to dress, not expecting their dad to show by now (and he didn’t).

And not talking about money, or about Dean getting another job, or going back to a roadhouse.  Because neither of them wanted a conversation like that, possibly ruining the day.

But the next morning, Dean dozing in bed.  The sound of the car, pulling away outside.  Dean sat up.  Looked groggily around.  Sam, driving off.  Early, too.  Where had he gone?

And then – “ _Shit!”_   Dean was on his feet, frantically pulling on his jeans.  He barrelled out the door, but the car was already long gone.  Dean returned to the shack, swearing.

Sam, driving into town.  To see _Phil,_ no doubt.  And collect to Dean’s pay for him and have that little chat, whatever _that_ meant.  And after Sam had _promised_ Dean, solemnly, that he woudn’t do this.  Pinky swear, even.  God _damn_ it.

Dean, swearing.  He was pulling on a shirt then socks and boots.  He was going after Sam, even if he had to walk all the way.

Dean picked up his jacket, shrugged it on.  But then his gaze fell on a piece of paper, laid out on the table.  Sam’s writing.

DEAN.  DON’T FREAK.  STAY PUT.  I’LL BE BACK SOON. 

And then,

I’M TAKING CARE OF THIS FOR YOU.  DON’T WORRY!!  (EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY). 

SAM.

Dean sat down at the table.  He was swearing again.  He held the note in his hand, helplessly.

It would take him all day to walk into town.  And even if he got lucky and hitched a ride, he might miss Sam on the road.

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

Dean sat at the table, swearing.

And hour, passing.  Then another one.

Dean sitting at the table, still as stone.  He’d give Sam another fifteen minutes and then he was on his way.  And when he caught up with his disobedient little brother…and _Phil_ …

The sound of a car in the distance. 

Dean was out the door, standing in the yard, staring down the road.

The Chevy, appearing.

Dean stood motionless in the icy air.

The Chevy pulled up, parked.  Sam climbed out.

Dean on him.  Shaking him.  “You goddam little _brat!_   You _promised!_   _You promised me!”_

Sam’s head bobbing.  “Dean!  Stop!  Jesus!”

Dean shook him once more, hard.  Then wrapped his arms around him, pulling Sam to his chest.  “Sam.  Fuck, you _worried me!_   Why’d you go ‘n’ _do that?”_

“I _told_ you not to worry,” Sam said.  He struggled free.  Then waved something under Dean’s nose.  A handful of paper.  “Here.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, without interest.  His hands were on Sam’s arms again, reeling him in.

Sam jumped back.  “Dean, Jesus.  Give me a second here.  Look.”  And he held out his hand.  “Here.  This is for you.”

Dean took the handful of paper.  Examined it.  A paycheque made out to him, signed today.  And a sheaf of one hundred dollar bills.  He counted.  Ten of them.  “What’s _this?”_ Dean asked.

“Your pay for January,” Sam said.  “In cash.”

 _“What?”_ Dean said.

Sam was grinning.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Phil gave you severance.  _After_ he ‘n’ I had that little chat.”

Dean stared at him.  “Oh,” Sam said.  “And here.”  He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.  Handed it to Dean.

Dean took it from him.  Unfolded it.  A letter, written in Phil’s spiky hand.  Dated today.  “What’s _this?”_ he asked.

“A reference letter,” Sam said.  “Recommendin you for any job in town.  Says you’re an employee worth hirin.”

“Holy shit,” Dean said, after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He was grinning.

“What did you _say_ to him?” Dean asked.

“I educated him,” Sam said.  “On the labour laws of the state of Wisconsin.  _Includin_ those pertainin to sexual harassment.  And I also reminded him that I go to the same highschool as his daughter.”

Dean looked at him.

Sam shrugged.  “Phil’s not an idiot,” he said.  “He’s an asshole, but he’s got brains, you c’n see that.  He got the picture, pretty fast.”

“What picture?” Dean asked.

“That if he didn’t do right by you, I’d totally ruin him,” Sam said calmly.  “A sexual harassment complaint would be just the start.  By the time we were through, he wouldn’t have a reputation worth shit.  And I can’t see his business survivin that.  Not in _this_ town.  I think he understood that too.  And his precious Heather’s days as a highschool princess…they’d be over.”

“…Jesus, Sammy,” Dean said, eventually.  “I could _never_ do that to him.  You know that.”

“No, I know,” Sam said.  “But _I_  could.  And Phil could see that.  Like I said, he’s not stupid.  He knows it wouldn’t be you.”

He looked at Dean.  “It’s _me_ he’s scared of,” Sam said.

“God,” Dean said.  He stared at his brother.  “I c’n see why.”

Sam smiled.  “We’re stayin here,” he said.  “You promised me finishin the school year in one place and we’re doin that.  _Phil’s_ not ruinin things.”

“Did he… _say_ anythin about me?” Dean asked.

Sam wasn’t smiling now.  “Yeah,” he said.  “He said, ‘Tell Dean he still has a job here, if he wants.”

“…So what did _you_ say?” Dean asked him.

“I told him that you’d work for him again in hell,” Sam said.  “And that he better not come after you, or Heather’s gonna be gettin some very interesting information about her dad.  Along with the rest of her grade eleven class.”

“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean said.

“He’s gonna leave you alone,” Sam said.  “He knows I’ll be keepin an eye on that.  And if you _do_ run into him...it’s not gonna bother you.  Because whatever _happened_ between you ‘n’ him…that you’re not _tellin me about_ but that’s okay…it doesn’t matter anymore.”  He looked at Dean.  “And you know why.”

Dean looked back.  He was silent.

“You know why,” Sam said to him again.  “Tell me.”

“Because of you,” Dean said.  “Because you’re the only thing that matters.”

“That’s right,” Sam said.  And then he smiled. 

“The only thing,” Dean repeated.  He felt a chill, suddenly.  Shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold winter air.

Sam didn’t notice.

“Just remember that,” Sam said.  “If you ever start to feel bad again.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean said quietly. 

Sam stepped forward.  He put his arms around Dean.  “Dean,” he said.  “Don’t forget.  If somethin ever happens like this again…something that makes you feel _bad_ , like throwin up…I’ll take care of it.  Okay?”

Dean had closed his eyes.  “Okay Sammy,” he whispered.

“I’ll take care of you,” Sam said.  “Don’t forget that.  Okay?”

Dean was shaking.  He put his arms around Sam.  Hugged him.  “Okay,” he whispered.  And hugging Sam, _hard._

“Oof,” Sam said.

“I love you,” Dean said.  He was speaking into Sam’s throat.

“I love you too,” Sam said.  And then, “You’re not mad at me anymore, are you Dean?  For goin off this morning?”

Dean grinned.  Sam sounded worried.  He raised his head, looked at his brother.

“I’m pretty mad,” he said.  “You’re a handful, Sammy.  Always have been.  And this situation’s _so_ fucked up.”

“No it’s not!”  Sam said.  “It’s taken _care of._   I sorted it out for you, Dean.  Don’t you see?”

“Not that,” Dean said.  “You sorted _that_ out alright, Jesus.  You’re a menace.  I meant this _whole_ situation.  In a broader sense.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  “Yeah.  Guess so.”

“But that’s okay,” Dean said.  He was smiling.  “I c’n live with that.”  And he leaned forward.  “You ‘n’ I are together,” he murmured.  “And that’s the only thing that matters.”

Sam jumped back.  “Don’t kiss me out _here,_ Dean, Jesus!  Remember what you said about bein careful?  Let’s go inside.”

And later, after kissing against the door they’d slammed shut behind them, and then on the bed, and then _in_ the bed, both of the them naked now, under the covers…still kissing even though they were doing other things to each other by then…

After that, lying weakly against each other, sweaty and exhausted. 

“What should we do today?” Sam murmured.  “I feel like celebratin.  And after all, we’ve got money.”

“Whatever you want,” Dean murmured back.  “You got that money for us Sammy, you have first say.”

“Why don’t we go to a movie?” Sam said.  “Matinee.  Titanic’s playing.  I’ve been wantin to see it.”

“Kind of a chick flick,” Dean said dubiously.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “So?”

“…So nothing,” Dean said.  “Titanic sounds great.  Leonardo diCaprio, can’t go wrong with that.”  He sat up, slid out of bed.  Shivered, the room had gotten cold again.  “You want to eat before we go?” Dean asked.  “I c’n fry up some eggs.  We’re out of bacon though.”

“Let’s eat in town,” Sam said.  “Find some place that serves an all day breakfast.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  He was hunting around for his clothes.  “How about Cal’s Diner?  They have great coffee.”  He glanced back at Sam.  And smiled.

Sam was sitting up on the bed.  He’d wrapped the covers around tightly himself like a cocoon, with just his head sticking out, that mess of floppy hair.  Dean smiling, at this.

Sam smiled back.  “Sure,” he said.  “Cal’s Diner, here we come.”


	40. Chapter 40

Rhonda was growing on him.

Sam hadn’t liked her much at first.

I mean, she had kind of an attitude (towards him).  Like Sam was this little puppy (so cute).  Like Sam was just _there,_ Dean’s adorable little younger brother, to be patted on the head (and she _did_ pat him on the head).

And Sam…he wasn’t an _idiot._   Okay?  He could see she had a crush on Dean (big shock there).  And Sam was like…compensation.  For her having to _work_ with Dean and feeling like a total knob for going gaga over him (like every other girl who’d ever set eyes on Dean), and _showing_ it too (like every other girl…Rhonda not an exception here)…so being able to tease Sam, pat his head, play with his hair…that was like payback (and it also tweaked Dean, Rhonda had picked up on that too, Sam could see, Dean paying a certain attention to her when she was teasing Sam, Dean’s eyes suddenly focused on her, not flicking over her casually the way they did at other times).

Rhonda.  Sam had found her totally aggravating.

At first.

But you know…he could also like, _sympathize._ You know?

I mean… _Dean._   God.

It was hard to describe the _effect_ that Dean had on people.  Just by breathing.

Even _Dean_ didn’t really get it (even though he used it, and ruthlessly sometimes…and was expected to by their dad, that shithead).

When Dean entered a room, it was like…everything stopped.

It was like…this profound event, Dean entering a room.

(And Dean could have done without that, Sam knew that too, his brother didn’t like having the normal flow of events just _stop,_ whenever he showed up). 

It embarrassed him.

And it also made him feel obliged to act in certain ways.  

With the people who had the bad luck to be in his vicinity, helplessly responding to that face of his in some way, shape or form…Dean’s looks always an issue, to be ignored, contained or worked as the situation called for.  It sucked, really…Dean always having to _do_ something…Sam’s big brother never able to just be normal with the people around him, like day-to-day normal. 

Relaxed, you know?  Just himself.  (Except with the people who had known him forever, like his dad, or Bobby or Sam).

Those looks of his.  Dealing with them was a _responsibility_ for Dean.  On top of all of his _other_ responsibilities.

(And their dad took this attitude too, about his older son’s movie star appearance, in some weird, hurtful way that Sam was just starting to understand).

But anyway…it didn’t matter how Dean felt about the situation, in the end. 

Because his beauty (Sam’s word, _Dean_ would have never described himself that way) was as inescapable as the weather.  You just had to deal.

When Dean was first hired at the diner, Shelley told him straight out, don’t go breaking any hearts.  She’d seen how Rhonda and Patricia stared at Dean (like every other waitress in every other diner Dean had stepped into since he’d turned fifteen), and when it had been announced that he was now the new second shift cook, replacing Norm (a skinny, buck toothed dude in his fifties) while Norm dealt with his cancer diagnosis, the two girls (Rhonda was Dean’s age and Patricia a couple years older) both looked like they couldn’t believe their luck. 

Shelley had noticed this.  And she’d been really clear with Dean.

No drama.  Not in _her_ restaurant.

(Sam had heard this secondhand, Dean telling him later, with the kind of embarrassed off-handedness that Sam was familiar with from his brother, whenever Dean’s looks became a thing and Dean really didn’t want them to be a thing).

And Dean had been clear with Shelley too.  He didn’t want any drama either.

He’d been very sincere about this.  Shelley could see it.

And he’d acted accordingly, treating Rhonda and Patricia with an impersonal politeness that...didn’t really help at all, in terms of making them less fascinated with him.

But it definitely affected their behaviour with Sam.

When Sam started showing up at the diner (like, the day after Dean began working there – Dean had explained to Cal and Shelley that he was responsible for his little brother, with Sam dependent on Dean’s schedule too, having to hang out at the library or somewhere in town until Dean was finished his shift and could drive them both home…and Dean’s shifts at the diner were considerably later than his shifts at Phil’s, but Sam didn’t care, he wasn’t about to make an issue of that with Dean…but _Dean_ cared, and he’d negotiated with Cal and Shelley that Sam could hang out and do his homework at the diner and get meals on the house.  Cal had been reluctant to accommodate this, but Shelley had gone to bat for the brothers after getting all soft eyed at their story about being left alone by their dad to fend for themselves.  And both Cal and Shelley had been impressed by Dean’s reference from Phil, a longtime customer  -although Phil somehow never showed up when Dean was on shift.  But on the strength of Phil’s recommendation they’d decided to make their new hire happy and let his little brother hang out at the diner and _eat,_ like a pig at a trough –Cal’s words, but he was smiling when he said them at that point…Sam tutoring Jackson by then…), anyway, once Sam started showing up at the diner and setting up a little desk for himself at the back table nearest the grill where Dean was stationed…both Rhonda and Patricia took _really_ good care of him.

Coffee?  Sure, coming right up, and with limitless refills.  Ice cream?  (Cal’s Diner known for its sundaes).  Sure, no problem (and Sam’s ice cream always coming with a cherry on top).  And full dinner plates too, either Rhonda and Patricia scribbling down Sam’s requests for baconburgers or steak ‘n’ eggs or liver and onions, with fries (and gravy) and fried tomatoes on the side (the closest thing Cal’s Diner served for vegetables).  And then sashaying up to Dean, who’d be standing behind the grill, narrow eyed at this point, observing both his brother and the waitress in question, and saying to him, sweetly, _“Extra_ fries for table one and he asked you to _please_ not to over-cook the tomatoes.”  And Dean, taking Sam’s yellow order slip without comment, shooting Sam a glance (and Sam grinning at him).

So that part was great, actually.  Not just the food (always welcome) but the _service,_ like…Dean _cooking for him,_ to _order,_ and wearing that white apron while he did it, I mean…wow.

Sam was pretty happy with that part of the deal alright.

But the part where Rhonda and Patricia thought that they could treat him like their own personal little puppy dog…he wasn’t so happy with that.

I mean, having these older chicks cooing over him, twirling their fingers in his hair, or giggling at how Dean would call him Sammy absentmindedly even though Sam had expressly asked Dean _not_ _to_ (not in front of other people because then _they_ called him Sammy too), I mean it was… _undignified._

Because it was clear that Rhonda and Patricia weren’t paying attention to him because he was such a magnet (in fact, Sam had reverted to his traditional nerd persona at this current school, generally just hanging out with Kyle, his shy, bright and acne ridden chemistry lab partner, at lunch, but keeping his distance from pretty much everyone else, and definitely staying away from the popular crowd, Sam and the local jocks and princesses impersonally passing each other in the halls -although Sam had noticed some flickers of recognition from that group once he’d started tutoring Jackson, who was on the basketball team.  But if there were any girls crushing over Sam, they were being subtle about it -like, _imperceptibly_ subtle).

So.  Not a magnet.  For girls (or any boys either…not that Sam would have expected a boy to give him any signs in _that_ line...you did that, you took a serious risk of getting beat up or at the very least never walking the school halls in peace again – and it wasn’t any different at this school than any other school Sam had gone to.  Him and Aaron finding each other had been a fluke).

But keeping to himself – that was okay.  Sam didn’t want to upset the new, delicate equilibrium between him and Dean (it was too precious) by introducing anyone to the mix who Dean would find threatening (and _that_ meant _everyone_ , who was Sam kidding, here) _._   And in any case, it wasn’t like Sam wasn’t used to being isolated from his peers by both his circumstances and his brain.  That was the way he was _used_ to going through school.   Those short weeks he’d hung out with Ryan and company – those had been a first for him and look at how _that_ had turned out.

And anyway, he still had Aaron to talk to, a couple of times a week, even if it was only long distance, and in secret.  But you know, after _Aaron_ …none of the local kids was all that compelling.

But it was one thing for Sam to accept that the world saw him as this weird, loner, brainiac nerd, quiet for the most part (except when called upon by a teacher to answer a question, and occasionally amusing himself by condensing fifty minutes of classroom blah blah blah into one or two pithy points, backed up with references to original source material, and stunning everyone - including the teacher- into silence because, what the hell, Sam was smart, okay?  And he was miles ahead of everyone else in the room –including the teacher- and he was bored), his face always half hidden behind a tumble of messy hair, his expression remote as he walked through the halls, mostly ignoring the other kids although occasionally his eyes would meet theirs in an eerie green-gray-yellow flash that left them blinking.  The world saw him like that, and that was…okay. 

Okay?

Because Sam had Dean (of course) and now Aaron (surprisingly), and with _them_ he could be himself (or, let’s say…mostly himself…or okay, let’s say a _part_ of himself, one part with Dean and another part with Aaron).  But at least those parts of himself he showed to his brother _(lover, his lover, that's what Dean was but Sam would/could never say to him he'd just think it, silently)_ and his friend… _those_ parts were genuine, they really meant something. 

They weren’t bullshit.  They weren’t a front, a cover, like Sam put on for everyone else.  Like what he did for his dad.

So, fuck everyone else, really.  It was okay.

Well…not _really_ okay.  But, okay.

You know?  Sam could deal.

(And he was actually concentrating on other things right now anyway…grade ten wasn’t too early to set himself up for reaping maximum scholarships – to a _good_ college – and he’d allied himself with this current school’s guidance counsellor –who was thrilled at having academic material like _Sam_ to work with-  and Sam was taking _full_ advantage of the fact he could count on being in one place for more than the 8-16 weeks it typically took his dad to work a hunt to organize a comprehensive college prep program for himself – because who knew when he’d have the opportunity to do that again – and he was taking the SATs early, in March.  Mr. Boland, the guidance counsellor, understood that the only way Sam would get to college was on a full ride scholarship and he’d helped Sam plan out the next two and a half academic years like a take-no-prisoners battle campaign to conquer the Ivy League schools admissions process – factoring in the instability Sam was expecting to face again in grades eleven and twelve).

Sam hadn’t said much about this current project of his to Dean (like, _nothing_ actually – Dean didn’t need to hear how hard Sam was working to leave the hunters’ life…and what was the point of just making Dean unhappy and then him and Sam getting into some big fight). 

And anyway, Sam was still hoping that Dean would follow him when Sam left for college, and finally break himself free from the dark thrall of their dad.  Sam _was_ planning to hunt as soon as their dad came back and pronounced Sam ready.  He’d made that decision and he wasn’t going to disappoint Dean in this (he didn’t give two shits about disappointing their _dad_ ).   But he wouldn’t let Dean down.  He’d give Dean that time and do what Dean had trained him for his whole life.  And maybe…just maybe…giving Dean that time would _also_ give Sam the leverage to take Dean with him when he went away to college. 

I mean, fair trade, right?  

And maybe, just maybe…Dean being away from hunting _this_ year (and being away from their _dad_ , who’d conveniently fucked off, in a snit)…maybe Dean would see finally that he had other options.

Maybe this year would help Dean do that. 

If their dad didn’t come back too soon.  Sam was crossing his fingers anyway.

So yeah.

Not saying anything about this to Dean (but Sam had discussed his college plans with _Aaron,_ at length…and Sam was starting to get the idea that Aaron was organizing _his_ college plans around _Sam’s_  –money no object for Aaron of course – it was the grades that were Aaron’s concern).

And not saying anything to anyone _else_ either (except Mr. Boland, in a limited, strategic way), because who the fuck _was_ anyone else, finally, in the Sam’s scheme of things?  Just civilians, existing on the edges of Sam’s consciousness.  Soft, ignorant, and dismissable for the most part (although Sam was still wary – anyone who got too close to him, no matter how benign their interest, could potentially ruin things just by getting to know him…because of Sam’s secrets of course – his unique family situation and _Dean_ , specifically).

So if people didn’t really notice Sam, except as this lanky, precociously brainy, mostly quiet kid, that was…fine. 

Because if people didn’t notice him they didn’t bother to come close to him.  And that kept _Dean_ from getting pissed (and thus dangerous to himself, Sam and the world at large). 

Except it could get frustrating, dealing with people who didn’t take him seriously.  Who just saw him as _Sammy,_ the cute but kinda geeky/awkward younger brother.  Dean’s sidekick.  

Because if people didn’t take Sam seriously, _especially_ girls _…_ they still took Dean seriously.  _Really_ seriously, like having a bit of Dean’s attention, sharing a bit of his time, his space…that meant a lot (and this didn’t just go for people who were _hot_ for Dean, although for sure there were plenty of those…it went for _everyone)._ People just liked…being in the same room with Dean.  It made them feel special, like Dean brought this magic with him that people could share, just by breathing in the same air as he did, never mind if he actually _looked_ at them, or god forbid _smiled_ at them.  Sam had observed this (he called it the Dean-effect) for years, and he’d seen it at work on all sorts of folks, including people like Cal and Shelley, who _enjoyed_ having (this beautiful young man) Dean cooking in their restaurant, shining like a light behind his sizzling burgers and bacon strips.  

But what all of that meant for Sam was that most people ( _especially_ girls) tended to see _Sam_ as a handy (and always reliable) route to Dean’s attention and consequently he was pretty clear that the attention _he_ got wasn’t really meant for him.  It was meant for _Dean,_ but directed at Sam because he was just more accessible, able to just walk into a room like a regular human being rather than _enter_ it, like a visiting god.

And that meant that when Sam was being fussed over by the likes of Rhonda, Patricia (and even Shelley, until Sam started helping Jackson with his homework, which he’d started doing partly out of pity for the kid and partly as a strategic move, in payback for all those free meals…and after Shelley started seeing the results of _that,_ Sam could see it in her eyes, that she saw _him_ now, _Sam,_ not just _Sammy,_ Dean’s skinny, shaggy-haired -and hungry- younger brother)…anyway, that attention didn’t feel particularly genuine and it was more aggravating than anything. 

And also, getting attention like that meant having to manage _Dean,_ who’d _sometimes_ take it in stride (and smirk annoyingly at Sam from his haven behind the grill, watching his little brother’s efforts to fend off the waitresses as they teased and fussed over Sam the way they wished they could do with his older brother _)._ But more often, he’d just get riled (in spite of knowing better) and glare at Sam all narrow eyed –like all that female attention was _Sam’s_ fault, Jesus.

And then Sam had to manage that.  And managing _Dean_ when he got grumpy about stuff like that…it was a delicate job.  (And a risky one -it could get painful…literally).

So yeah.  That particular attention.  For _Sammy,_ Dean’s cute little brother.  And all because chicks would get these crushes on Dean.  It was pretty aggravating.  Even though Sam still kinda got it (because, you know, he _also_ knew what it was like to have a crush on Dean – _he’d_ had one, for a long time, before he’d gotten up the nerve to do something about it). 

And it was especially aggravating coming from Rhonda.

Because, you know, she was pretty cute. 

No.  She was damn hot, actually.  Better looking than Carla, even.

Sam had noticed her immediately (it was hard not to), as soon as he’d walked into the diner for the first time, when Dean and him had gone into town on Boxing Day.  They’d been relieved to find the diner open (it was actually doing good business), and were looking forward to catching a meal before going to see a movie ( _Sam’s_ pick, and he was also looking forward to holding hands with Dean in the dark movie theatre).

This hot waitress had come over to their table within seconds of them sitting down, her eyes on Dean (like everyone else’s in the room).  Handed them menus.  “Hi there!” she said.    “Did you have a nice Christmas?”  And smiling at Dean, all fluttery and engaged, her eyes on him like he was an uneaten candy cane.

“Pretty good,” Dean said.  “How bout you?”  He smiled at her and took his menu.

“Yeah, real nice.  I-“ and the girl stopped, mid sentence.  Stared at Dean, looking like she’d forgotten what she was going to say next, had forgotten how to _talk,_ maybe.  Eventually she asked, “C’n I get you coffee?”  And her voice was breathless now.  She stood there, staring at Dean helplessly.

Dean didn’t notice.  He was looking at the menu, not at her.  “Sure,” he said.  Then he looked up at Sam, his eyes warm.  “Don’t bother bringin the cream ‘n’ sugar though.  Sammy likes his coffee black.  Like me.”  And then Dean finally looked at the girl full on, with an open, friendly smile.  You know, just being sociable, with maybe an extra little glint in there, in appreciation of her being supercute.

Sam saw the girl melt (surprise, surprise).  He started to roll his eyes, but stopped himself.

 _“Sammy?”_ the girl said.  She giggled.  And gazed at Dean, adoringly.  Sam saw his brother finally notice this.  And then he saw Dean’s expression change.  Dean’s smile became…deliberate.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He smiled again, charmingly now.  “My brother.  You haven't met him before, have you?  Well, Sam here doesn’t understand _real_ coffee.  He’s a Starbucks fan.”

“Evil!”  the girl exclaimed.  Still gazing adoringly at Dean.  She hadn’t looked at Sam once.  Sam sighed.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  And then he winked (and Sam saw the effect of that wink reverberate through the girl’s body).  “Time to educate him.”  Then Dean finally brought Sam into the fold.  “Sammy, this here's Rhonda.  Rhonda, this is my little brother.”

“Hi,” Sam said to her, shooting Dean a glance.  “I’m _Sam._   Nice to meet you.”

Rhonda glanced at him for about half a second.  Then her eyes were back on Dean.  “Nice to meet you,” she said absently.  Said to Dean, “I didn’t see you this morning.”

“No,” Dean said.  His smile faded.  “Not workin today.”

“Phil giving you the day off?” Rhonda asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He looked down.  “Somethin like that.”

Sam spoke up quickly.  “ -So you two _know_ each other?”  He directed his question at Rhonda.

She glanced at him again.  “Dean’s been comin in, in the mornings.  Shows up for our first pot of coffee of the day.”  She smiled at Dean.

Who was still looking down at his hands.  But then he raised his head, his expression, which had been troubled, clearing magically.  He looked up at Rhonda and smiled again, those green eyes flashing. 

“Don’t see _you_ every mornin though,” Dean said to her.  And then gave Rhonda his _Dean_ smile.

Even Sam couldn’t help melting at that one, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

Rhonda, visibly swooning.  “I don’t _always_ work the early shift,” she said.  “I switch off with Patricia ‘n Shelley.”  Then she smiled back at Dean.  And batted her eyelashes.  “I get to _sleep_ _in_  sometimes.  Don’t have to start _my_ job at the crack of dawn every day, like _you,_ coffee boy.”

Dean had stopped smiling.  Sam could see he wasn’t ready for a conversation about work (and maybe having to explain he no longer had a job that would bring him in for Cal’s Diner’s first pot of coffee).

“We’re ready to order,” Sam said abruptly.  “I’ll get three eggs over-easy with sausage ‘n’ brown toast.  And a glass of orange juice.  How bout you, Dean?”

Dean looked at him, surprised.  So did Rhonda.  “Um…I’ll get the pancake stack,” Dean said, after a moment.  “With sausage.  ‘N’ I’ll take a glass of OJ too.”

Rhonda had her yellow pad out.  “Sure,” she said, scribbling.  She glanced at Sam rather coolly.  “I’ll get you your coffees first.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, not looking at her.  He was watching Dean, a little worried.  He didn’t want his brother starting to feel _down_ again, about the job situation.  They’d deal with that another time.  Him and Dean were supposed to be having a nice day, here.  Celebrating Sam’s win, over Dean’s pervy asshole _former_ boss.

“No problem, _Sammy,”_ Rhonda said.

Sam looked up.  Rhonda was still standing there, staring at down him, her eyes cold.  _Showing_ Sam that she was pissed off, with him being kind of rude to her.

Sam stared back, really seeing her suddenly.  The girl was cute sure, more than cute, gorgeous actually, with a curvy slender body, long legs shown to advantage in tight jeans (no waitress uniforms at Cal’s Diner, apparently), and high round breasts under a tight cut white tshirt.   Sam had a good view of those breasts.  And then that long, springy brown hair, curling halfway down her back and a delicate, finely molded face, like one of those angel carvings in Pastor Jim’s church, except with a smooth, light brown skin, smooth and creamy as milk chocolate.  And a set of curvy pink lips, curved like a cupid’s bow and shining under clear gloss.  A gorgeous girl, alright. 

But then her eyes.  Those wide, long lashed eyes, a weird green-gray-blue colour, flecked with gold. 

Like _Sam’s_ eyes, actually.  And he’d never seen those weird, changeable colour eyes on anyone else before.  And now those eyes, staring back at him with a certain expression.

_(You giving me attitude, you little asshole?)_

Those eyes.  They turned that gorgeous girl into someone truly spectacular.  Just as hot as _Dean_ (well, almost). 

Sam blinked.  But then he looked at the girl and smiled, a _deliberate_ smile, his cheeks dimpling up (hey, if _Dean_ could do it…).  He tossed back the strands of hair that had tumbled over his face.   Batted _his_ eyelashes (and yeah, he could do that, too).  “Thanks Rhonda,” he said.

Now _she_ blinked.  “Sure,” she said in a softer voice.  And she _still_ wasn’t moving, just standing there, hovering over him and Dean like she’d forgotten what to do next.  Sam glanced over at Dean, amused.

And saw his brother watching him, narrow eyed.  Sam swallowed.  Oops.  Now he’d have to backtrack, and fast.  Dean didn’t take kindly to Sam paying that kind of attention to people other than him _–that_ was guaranteed to put him in a bad mood.  What had Sam been thinking, here?  But before he could do anything else, a harsh voice from the back of the room.

 _“Rhonda!_   _TABLE TWO’S READY!”_

“Wow,” Dean said.  He looked up at Rhonda, distracted.  “Cal sounds pissed.”

She shrugged, rolled her eyes.  “Yeah,” she said.  “He wasn’t supposed to be workin today, Norm called in sick.  I’ll be back in a sec with your coffees.”  And she turned, walking quickly towards the back of the room and the looming form of Cal, standing behind the grill.  Sam watched her go, that tight round ass, bobbing in dark denim.  He turned back to Dean.

Who was glaring at him. 

Sam shrugged at him apologetically.  “She’s cute, Dean, what c’n I say?”

“Keep your eyes to yourself Sammy,” Dean said, all grouchy.  “’N’ she’s too old for you, anyways.”

“Oh really?” Sam said.  “How old?”

Dean, glaring at him.  _“My_ age.  At least.”

Sam, smiling at him, sweetly now.  “Well _you’re_ not too old for me, are you big brother?”  Dean’s eyes widened.  Sam grinned.  And then he did this thing he’d do, sometimes, when Dean and him were out in public, sticking his tongue out and curling it into a little tube.  Sucking air back through it like a straw.  Just quickly.  Stopping before anyone else noticed.  Except Dean.

Who’d gone red (and Sam _loved_ making Dean blush, in public).  “Sammy…” Dean said, warningly.

“Sorry,” Sam said.  He closed his lips tightly, pursing them.  Smiled at Dean, sweetly again.  “You c’n get me for that, later,” he said in a low voice.  Then, staring at his brother. _“Panties,”_ Sam whispered.

Dean was _beet_ red, now.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  Sam watched him, enjoying this.

“You little bitch,” Dean whispered back.  “I _will_ get you, for that.”

“I’m countin on it, daddy,” Sam said.  And watched the effect of _that._   And blinked at Dean, giving him the puppy eyes now, _loving_ his brother’s eyes fixed on him, so helplessly.

People would stare at Dean, sure.  Stare at Sam’s beautiful big brother, their eyes passing over Sam like he was air.  It happened all the time.  And Sam was used to it.  But Dean, Dean saw him.  Saw _only_ him, finally.  When you really came down to it.

Only Sam.

And that was awesome.  In spite of…everything.

Two cups of coffee, placed down on the table in front of them, rather sharply.  “Here you go,” Rhonda’s voice.  “Black ‘n’ black.”

Sam was startled.  He’d been so busy staring at Dean that he hadn’t noticed her coming back.  Dean looked up, those green eyes which had been focused on Sam turning to Rhonda suddenly, still at maximum voltage, lethal (even to Sam, who was used to that look, by now).  “Thanks,” Dean said absently.

Sam had been watching this, saw Rhonda’s expression shatter open as she took in the full impact of that dark green gaze.  “Sure,” Rhonda said shakily.  She fled.

Sam watched her go, with some satisfaction.

That girl was wicked hot, sure.  But she was still powerless against Dean.  And Sam could take her.

But once Dean had asked Cal and Shelley for a job (rather shyly, and at _Sam’s_ suggestion, after Sam had figured out that Cal’s Diner was unexpectedly short their second shift cook), and they’d hired him (after they’d considered the brothers’ situation, and read Phil’s reference letter and called him -Sam would have paid good money to hear _that_ conversation- and then put Dean through a quick try-out, Dean frying them up an order of steak and eggs as well as an order of fish and chips, simultaneously), and Dean had started covering the diner’s second shift, settling himself in behind the grill with his usual striking competence, and Sam had settled himself in at table one…

…Rhonda apparently decided that Sam was harmless.

Dean’s little puppy dog of a brother, showing up at the diner to be fed and do his homework under Dean’s supervisory eye.  Cute little Sammy, someone Rhonda could fuss over and banter with and tease, unlike his frighteningly gorgeous older brother who seemed to be immune to her.  And Sam didn’t mind, to a point (I mean, all that attention from a girl as hot as Rhonda, it was… _an experience,_ okay?).  But the catch was that this attention wasn’t really for _Sam._   It was just a show put on for _Dean,_ who’d be observing Sam and the hot waitress from his place behind the grill.

And occasionally speaking up.

“Go easy on _Sammy_ Rhonda, he’s not used to girls.”

or

“Better wash your hands Rhonda,” (after Rhonda had put them in Sam’s _hair,_ like she did _all_ the time), “Sammy didn’t have his bath today.”

And other charming things like that.

And Rhonda, turning to Dean and grinning at him (Rhonda not so shy with Dean anymore, now that she had Dean’s little brother to torment).  “Oh I dunno, Sammy feels squeaky clean to me.”  And running her hands over Sam’s hair again casually (but Dean’s eyes on this, not so casual).

“It’s _Sam,”_ Sam said, between his teeth.  Rhonda, with her curvy, jeans clad hips and thighs, narrow waist and full breasts, not to mention that _butt_ …standing right next to him.  He jerked his head impatiently under her fingers.  “What’re you _doin_ , Rhonda?”

Rhonda was smoothing Sam’s hair away from his face.   Standing even _closer_ to him, Jesus.  “Just organizing you,” she said.  “You should pull your hair back Sam, you’re gonna keep it long like that.  Why’s it always in your eyes?”  And grabbing a hank of Sam’s hair, pulling it back from his forehead.  “You need to keep it tied back.  Like this.”  And quickly securing the hank of Sam’s hair back from his face, using a dark brown hair elastic she’d had looped around her wrist.  “There.  See?  That looks so much better.”

Sam’s eyes turned involuntarily to Dean.  Who was staring at him, grimly. 

And that was the other thing.

Rhonda, paying all this attention to him.  To get _Dean’s_ attention.  But you know…it was getting Sam’s attention _too,_ okay? 

I mean…Sam made a point of _acting_ like a kid, whenever he hung out at the diner (behaving like he was Jackson’s age –which he _was,_ in fact).  Acting young…it couldn’t hurt.  It helped, actually.  Earned both him and his brother sympathy points from Shelley and Cal.

But the thing was, Sam _wasn’t_ a kid.   That ship had sailed long ago.  And he might not know much about _girls_ but…

…he knew about sex.

Sam not innocent.

Not at all.

And then _Rhonda,_ hovering over him, touching him, fussing over him, putting that round ass of hers near him whenever she came by Sam’s table…

It was having an effect.

I mean, Sam had generally kept away from girls, for the most part (except for that brief moment, with Carla).  He was a little shy with them, conscious of all the differences that set him apart from other kids, and with the situation with Dean it was just simpler, okay?  And it’s not like he’d had much opportunity to get to _know_ any girls either, not the way he’d been raised, what with his dad’s secret job and lucky if his family was in one place for more than three months.

But wasn’t like Sam didn’t _like_ girls.  He liked girls.  And also, he liked…girl _qualities_ (which of course drove his dad batshit).  He liked…girl _stuff,_ okay?  (And luckily Dean seemed okay with that). 

And Sam had certainly seen plenty of _naked_ girls, via the porn magazines and movies that Dean enjoyed.  He knew what was under Rhonda’s clothes. 

And he was starting to wonder about it.  About what it would be like to go there, with a girl.  With a _specific_ girl actually.  Rhonda.  Who’d moved right into Sam’s personal space, unaware that it was reserved for Dean. 

It was kind of funny, really.  For as long as Sam could remember he’d had an invisible circle around his body, about thirty inches in diameter.  He knew its measurements so precisely because that was as close as anyone could get to him without _Dean_ starting to freak out (and anyone meant _anyone,_ including even their dad and Bobby, sometimes).  Anyone got close enough to Sam to touch him, you’d see Dean’s hackles rise.  Visibly.

And once Dean and he were together that space around Sam…it became sacrosanct.  Consecrated to _Dean._   You disrespected its boundaries and Dean became very uneasy.  And Dean getting uneasy had consequences, as Sam had learned, after Dean started spanking him every time he got jealous.

So Sam had gotten used to operating within that invisible circle.  Inviting people into it rarely and almost never venturing out.  He seldom welcomed or initiated physical contact with others and _never_ when Dean was around. 

And both him and Dean took Sam being that way for granted by now.  It was just easier.

But _Rhonda_ …she’d moved right into Sam’s personal space.  Under Dean’s nose.  On purpose (because that was _guaranteed_ to get Dean’s attention).  Putting that curvy body of hers close to Sam.  Touching him (a lot), even if it was just casually.  Trespassing unknowingly onto Dean’s sacred ground.  And it wasn’t just _Dean_ who got riled.  Sam was…reacting to that. 

Rhonda, continually coming close to him, like almost no one else had in Sam’s entire _life_ (other than Dean, of course).  And Dean’s eyes on this.  It was all kind of a turn-on, okay?   And Sam was starting to want to do something about it.

But that was the thing.  Sam knew Rhonda wasn’t serious.  She was like that with Sam _because_ she thought he was just a kid.  Being flirtatious with him, touching him…it was like playing with a puppy.  It didn’t mean anything (except for the convenient way it drew Dean’s eyes).  And not only that…Sam couldn’t correct her misimpression of him.

Sam _couldn’t_ show her that he wasn’t just a kid.  Because then _Dean_ would go ballistic.

It was frustrating.  Like now.

Sam, sitting passively under Rhonda’s hands, watching Dean glare at him.  Rhonda had turned to look at Dean too.  “So what d’ _you_ think?” she asked Dean, her eyes sparkling.  “Sammy looks a lot better, huh?”

“You just made him look like a chick,” Dean replied, shortly.

Rhonda grinned.  She put a hand on her hip and shifted her weight from one foot to the another.   Sam was conscious of her gravity-defying, denim covered butt as it hovered near him, one rounded cheek curving up next to him, practically under his nose.  He noticed Dean noticing this too.  “If you say so,” Rhonda said to Dean.  “ _I’d_ just say your little brother looks real cute.” 

And Sam, grinning now too (he couldn’t help himself, Dean looked _so_ pissed off).  “Yeah Dean, where d’you get off, callin me a _chick?”_

And Dean shooting green death-rays at both of them, his face starting to get red.

Then Shelley, stepping in.  “Rhonda, leave the boy alone.  You’ve got customers and I’ve got my hands full at the counter.  Table eleven wants a refill on their coffee and table nine is ready for dessert.  And then you got to chip in with those dishes.”  Rhonda hurried off.  Shelley handed Dean a yellow slip.  “And this order’s to go.  You need to get cracking _too_ Dean, you’re starting to get backed up.  Sam, you want to sit in here, _don’t_ distract my staff.”

Sam looked down meekly.  “I’m sorry Shelley.”

Shelley gazed at him, her eyes softening.  “Okay kiddo.  I must say though, your hair _does_ look better, tied back like that.  Lets us see those pretty eyes of yours.  You should either cut it or groom it, Sam.  Stop looking so much like a shaggy dog, all the time.”

Sam glanced meaningfully at Dean (who hadn’t let Sam cut his hair for months).  Then he looked back at Shelley.  Blinked up at her, with those _pretty_ eyes.  “Okay Shelley,” he said.

Shelley, smiling at him.  “You want some ice cream?” she asked him.

“Sure!” Sam said.  “I mean…yes, please.”

Shelley smiling.  “You studying with Jackson today?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “He’s comin here, after basketball practice.  I’m studyin with him for our algebra test tomorrow.  By the time we’re done, he should ace it.”

Shelley, smiling at Sam fondly, shaking her head.  “That’s wonderful Sam.  I’m so glad to hear it.  You want chocolate sauce with that ice cream?”

“Yeah!” Sam said enthusiastically.  “That’d be great!”

Shelley patted him on the shoulder then turned away.  Sam watched her go.  After a moment he glanced at Dean, sidelong.

“You little suck,” Dean said.  He was grimly chopping up an onion.

“What’d I do?” Sam said.  And turned his gaze on Dean.  Blinked up at his brother, charmingly.

Dean blinked back.  But not because he was charmed.  The onion was making his eyes water.  “Oh, nothin,” he grumbled.  “Just bein your usual little self.  Stop flirtin with Rhonda, Sammy, you know I don’t like it.”

 _Sam_ was annoyed now.  _“She_ was the one flirtin.  _I_ wasn’t doin anything.”

“Didn’t look like that from where _I_ was standin,” Dean said.  “You watch yourself, Sammy.  Just cause I’m givin you more rope these days doesn’t mean you have to go hang yourself with it.”

Wow. 

Sam glared at his brother, upset.  “You’re bein _unfair_ Dean!  I’m not doin anythin but sittin here!  You should see that!  And Rhonda’s only that way with me because of _you,_ anyways.”

Dean didn’t look convinced.  “You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I’m positive.”

Dean snorted.  Kept chopping his onion.

Sam stared at him, exasperated.  “Don’t be like that,” he said, trying for a reasonable tone.  “How do you _expect_ me to act?  It’s not like I c’n exactly _ignore_ her.”

“Well you don’t have to _encourage_ her!” Dean snapped.  His knife slammed down suddenly.

So much for reasonable.

“I’m _not!”_ Sam snapped back.  “I’m just _sittin here,_ doin my _homework!_   Jesus, Dean! _”_

Dean had dumped the onion pieces onto the grill.  They started to sizzle.  He flipped a burger next to them.  He didn’t answer. 

Sam watched this.  Dean _sulking,_ god.  “You know, if me bein here… _annoys_ you so much, I c’n always just go hang out at the library,” Sam said.  Dean didn’t answer.  Didn’t look up.  “Or the _arcade,”_ Sam added.  “It’s open late.  I could shoot some pool.  Or darts.  Work on my throwin.”

Dean looked up at this.  “No,” he said.  “We agreed you’d come here.  That was part of the deal when I took this job.  Remember?”

“So you could keep an _eye_ on me,” Sam said, resentfully. 

Dean, looking at him.  “Yeah,” he said.  “So?”

“So stop givin me such a hard time!” Sam snapped.  “I’m not _doin anythin!”_

“Not doin what?”  Rhonda was back.  She put a dish of vanilla ice cream on the table in front of Sam, along with a spoon and a paper napkin.  The generous mound of ice cream was smothered with chocolate sauce and there was a cherry, perched on top.  “Special delivery from Shelley for our little prince, here,” Rhonda said.  She’d addressed this comment to Dean.  And then said, her eyes still on Dean.  “What was Sam doing?”

Dean looked at her then looked away.  He didn’t say anything.

Sam watched Rhonda stare at his brother, waiting for Dean to say something, anything.  Rhonda, gazing at Dean with this kind of _yearning_ look, an expression she was clearly unaware of, one that would have mortified her, probably, had she known it was there on her face for everyone to see.  That yearning expression, quite familiar to Sam, actually.  The way two-thirds of the world looked at Dean.  The way _he_ looked at Dean, a good part of the time.

Sam was _really_ annoyed, suddenly.

Dean.  Telling _Sam_ he was flirting.  Giving _Sam_ a hard time about this, Jesus.  Like _Dean_ was such a saint, here.  Dean, moving through life bathed in the adoration of girls like Rhonda like it was his God-given right.

And Sam expected not to mind.

But the _other_ way around…forget it.

“Oh nothin,” Sam said.  “Dean just thinks I’m _flirtin_ with you, that’s all.  Says I should leave you alone.”  Dean looked up, staring at Sam, appalled.  Sam smiled back at him, nastily.

Rhonda looked startled.  She glanced at Sam then at Dean.  Sam could see her thinking about what he’d just said.

But then her eyes started to sparkle.  After another rapid glance at Dean, she swayed close to Sam (those hips, Jesus).  Then she bent over Sam and kissed him on the forehead, her lips lingering. 

Sam was frozen, shocked. 

Rhonda straightened up.  She was grinning now.  And gazing down at _Sam_ , her expression lively. “You _like_ me Sam?” she asked him in a playful voice.  “Think I’m pretty?”

Sam stared up at her.  Rhonda had just…kissed him.  On purpose.  _Kissed him_.  Sam had just been kissed (by someone other than Dean, that is) for the second time in his life (the first time had been Carla, when she’d kissed Sam’s cheek at Ryan’s house). 

Rhonda had just kissed him.  And taken her time about it too.

_(You like me Sam?)_

Flirting.  This was flirting.  Unquestionably. 

Wasn’t it?  Rhonda was _flirting_ with him.  For real.  Wasn’t she?   And shit, she was playing with _fire,_ she had no idea.  Sam gazed up at her, swallowing, not sure how to respond.  He deliberately didn’t look at Dean, _scared_ to look at him, suddenly.  Rhonda had just _kissed_ him and now she was looking at Sam like she _liked_ him.  So what was _Sam_ supposed to do _?_

But then he saw Rhonda’s eyes turn back to Dean (again).  It was suddenly clear to Sam that _he_ wasn’t the important one here, that Rhonda wasn’t thinking about him at all.  She was just looking at _Dean,_ intent on getting a rise out of Sam’s brother.

Like she’d been doing all along.

Sam just a ploy, to get Dean’s attention.  And why should Sam have thought any different?

Sammy, the little brother.  To be fussed over, teased, patted on the head.  By every girl who’d ever had a crush on Dean.  And now by Rhonda, the latest girl in a very long line.

And by far the hottest.  And Sam had _noticed,_ okay?  Like Rhonda had meant him to, not that it mattered to her.  Because _Rhonda_ clearly took Sam’s admiration for granted, like she probably did from most dudes.  Because she was just thinking about his brother.

And then Dean, getting _mad_.  At _Sam_ because Rhonda was paying attention to him.  And not even because of _him,_ but because Sam was Dean’s little brother.  Sam just _there,_ in the line of fire.  And Dean choosing not to see this and cut Sam some slack, for whatever reason.

Dean, acting like Rhonda’s behaviour was all _Sam’s_ fault.  That was so unfair of him.

Sam was furious, suddenly.

Because he’d been _trying,_ okay?  It’s not like he _wanted_ to make Dean jealous.  He’d been really fucking careful, for _months._   Ever since that disaster, with Aaron.  He’d been _trying._ Tiptoeing around Dean’s feelings.  And not just with Rhonda.  With everyone.

And Dean, not even _seeing_ this.  What Sam was _doing_ for him, Sam expected to approach every other person on the planet like they were a potential landmine.  Never freely, never without caution.  Never able to just speak with anyone, to _look_ at them even, without that first thought.

 _Will this make Dean mad?_  

Sam, always keeping this in mind.  Always mindful of that invisible circle, surrounding him.  That space that Dean had established around him, for Dean’s use only.  And Sam trying his best to exist, to operate, within it.

For months.  Years.  Forever.

And Dean not giving Sam any credit for his efforts, at all.

Sam had had enough.

Sam watched Rhonda, who was watching Dean.  “Rhonda,” he said. 

And his voice was different, suddenly.  Older.  Not like a highschool kid’s.

Rhonda’s eyes turned to him, surprised.  Sam looked back.  He was conscious of Dean’s eyes on him too.  But he ignored Dean, just gazed at Rhonda steadily.  He was aware of his own face, with its clean oval shape and angular brows, noticeable suddenly with his hair pulled back.  Remembering how he’d looked from before, the last time he’d seen his face like this, when Carla had braided his hair. 

“Of course I think you’re pretty,” Sam said.  And he stared up at Rhonda, gravely.  “Anyone would.”

Rhonda looking at him, still surprised.  Silent. 

Sam smiled at her.  “I’m not flirtin, though,” he said.  _“_ I wouldn’t try, not with a girl like you.  _Dean_ says I’m not old enough.”

Rhonda stared at him.  She opened her mouth.  Closed it.  But then she asked, “How old _are_ you, again?”

Sam, gazing back at her.  “Fifteen,” he said.  “But I’ll be sixteen soon.  In May.”

“Huh,” Rhonda said, looking at him.  Didn’t say anything else.  But Sam was aware of her seeing _him_ now, not thinking about Dean anymore. 

Sam smiled.  “But you make me _wish_ I was older,” he said.  And then he grinned at her.

Rhonda stared.  Then suddenly she grinned back.  “You _are_ flirting with me,” she said. 

Sam, smiling.  “Maybe,” he said.

Rhonda, laughing now.  “Wow.  _Sammy._   Tryin to pick up an older woman.”

“Nah,” Sam said.  And blinking up at her, using his eyes.  “I wouldn’t try that.”

And then those _other_ grey-brown-greeny-gold eyes, staring back at him.  Absorbed, now.  “Sure,” Rhonda said softly.  And looking at Sam, like she was seeing him for the first time. 

The two of them gazing at each other, both smiling slightly. 

A clatter of plates, slammed down on the counter.

Sam and Rhonda turned to look at Dean.  Who was glaring at both of them.

“Your brother’s a menace,” Rhonda said to Dean, eventually.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was staring grimly at Sam.  “I know.  Table eight’s ready.”

Rhonda went over and picked up the plates.  “Thanks.”  And then she smiled at Dean again.  But Sam noticed a difference in her expression now.  Her smile was still appreciative (I mean, it was hard _not_ to appreciate the way Dean looked, like not appreciating a sunset), but Rhonda wasn’t looking at Dean with that vulnerable, yearning expression anymore.  She was looking at him comfortably, suddenly, _collegially,_ like her and Dean were equals.  The candid look of one beautiful person, acknowledging another.  And then Rhonda turned, winking at Sam as she walked away.

Sam watched her go, that perky ass and those long, long legs.  Wow.  Rhonda had just _winked_ at him. 

For real.

That gorgeous _older_ girl _,_ who’d been spending all this time patting him on the head while she was swooning over Dean.

And Sam had shown her.  That he wasn’t just Dean’s little brother.

He’d gotten on the radar of a girl like Rhonda.

It felt pretty damn good.

But.

Sam glanced over at Dean, cautiously.  His brother, glaring at him.  “You are in _trouble,”_ Dean said, mouthing the words silently.

Sam swallowed and ducked his head over his ice cream.  He didn’t answer.  He knew he was in trouble.

And later that night, Dean grabbing Sam as soon as they were home and throwing him face down on the bed.

“Dean!  Hey-“

Dean was behind him, yanking Sam up onto his hands and knees.  “Get your clothes off.”  Dean’s voice, coldly matter-of-fact.

Sam was trying to get himself off the bed.  “Dean, let me-“

Dean pushed him back.  “-I didn’t say _talk,_ I said, get your clothes off.  Now.”  And now Dean’s hands on Sam’s feet, yanking off his runners and socks.

“Dean, let me-“  Sam was trying to wriggle away.

Dean yanked him back.  “- _NOW,_ Sammy!” he snapped.

“But Dean, let me _stand up,_ at least!”

“No, you c’n stay like you are.”  Dean’s voice was hard.  His hands were on Sam’s jacket, yanking it off him roughly, pulling his arms back, Sam losing his balance and falling face forward onto the bed.  “Oof!”

“Jesus.”  Dean sounded… _annoyed,_ like Sam’s clothes hadn’t magically disappeared on his say.  He grasped Sam under the arms, pulled him up and ripped Sam’s sweatshirt and tshirt off over his head.  Then he undid Sam’s belt buckle, tearing the fly of Sam’s jeans open.  He pushed Sam’s head down towards the bed again.  “Keep that butt in the air,” Dean said.  And then he pulled Sam’s jeans and shorts down, baring Sam’s butt.  Yanked them off.

Sam was fully naked now and shivering.  The room was cold.  Dean hadn’t bothered to light the stove.  He tried again.

“Dean, c’n we-“

“I said shut up, Sammy.  You just concentrate on keepin that ass in the air.”  Sam heard his brother undoing his belt, unzipping himself.  And then the sound of him snapping open the cap from their bottle of lube. 

Sam was trembling now, he couldn’t help it.  Dean when he was really angry.  Sam could deal with it.  He had before.  But it was still scary.

Dean’s slick fingers on Sam’s asshole, stretching it out, Dean not bothering with any preliminaries.  Sam bit his lip.  “Dean, c’n we maybe-“

A sharp smack on his butt.  “I _told_ you to shut up.”  And then Dean’s cock, pushing into him, hard and fast.

Sam gasped.  Dean slammed into him and then started fucking him, very hard.  Despite the fact he’d slicked himself up with lube, he’d entered Sam painfully and he was fucking him roughly, clearly unconcerned with giving Sam any pleasure at all.

Sam was gasping for breath, flinching with every stroke of Dean’s cock.  He closed his eyes and put his head down.  Willed this to be over. 

Dean fucking him.  But then he pulled out of Sam without coming, again very hard.  Sam gasped again.  He started to turn around, to look up at his brother.  But then Dean’s hand on his back, shoving him face down on the bed.  “Did I say you could move?” 

Sam was trembling.  “Dean, please-“

“Shut up.”  Sam could hear Dean doing himself up again, the zipper, the belt buckle, clinking.  “What’re you-“ Sam began-

-But another sharp smack on his butt.  Dean’s cold voice.  “You don’t listen do you?  You never do.  Little brat.  Little bitch.” 

“But-“

“-But _maybe_ I just changed my mind.  Maybe I don’t _feel_ like fuckin you anymore, you little bitch.  Watchin you just _take it,_ like you’re doin me a favour.”  Dean’s voice was bitter.

Sam winced.  “Dean, _c’mon,_ you’re bein-“

A hand on the back of Sam’s head.  Pressing Sam’s face down into the mattress.  “What was that?”

Sam, trembling.  He shook his head silently.

Dean lifted his hand slightly, letting up the pressure on the back of Sam’s head.  Letting Sam breathe.  Then he flipped Sam over onto his back.

Sam stared up at him, Dean’s hard, cold face.  He wanted to say something _(Dean lighten up, c’mon),_ but he was scared to, now.  He stared up at Dean silently.  Pleadingly. 

Dean’s expression didn’t change.  “Little bitch,” he said again.  “Thinkin you c’n tease the whole world.”  Then said, “Put your hands above your head.”  Sam did.  And then gasped again as Dean’s mouth fastened onto one of his nipples, sucking it back _hard._  

Dean’s teeth, gnawing.

Sam gasped.  “Dean!  _Ouch-“_

“Shut up.”  And Dean _pulling_ on Sam’s nipple with his lips and teeth, _feeding_ on it, with Sam writhing now, and then Dean moving his mouth to Sam’s other nipple, subjecting it to the same treatment.

Sam keening, helplessly.

Dean sat back.  He stared down at Sam, his eyes blazing.  “Lift up your legs,” he said, after a moment.

Sam looked back at him.  He felt lips trembling.  “Dean, c’n we just-“

Dean reached out and grasped his cock.  Started pulling on it, mercilessly, pumping the shaft, working Sam’s cock with fingers and thumb, running his thumb again and again over the head of Sam’s cock. 

That strong, skilled, slicked up hand, gripping Sam’s cock.  Knowing exactly what to do with it.

Sam was moaning, rolling his head.

“Lift up your legs,” Dean said.  “I want to see that little asshole of yours.”

Sam didn’t move.  He stared at Dean, frozen.

 _“Now!”_ Dean snapped.

Sam lifted his legs.

“Higher,” Dean said.  “And spread ‘em.”  And working the head of Sam’s cock again, relentlessly, the skin slick now, slippery with a combination of lube and Sam’s juice.  Sam lifted his legs higher and parted them as wide as possible, his knees straining up beside his ears.  He looked up at Dean mutely.

Dean wasn’t looking back.  Or rather, he was looking down at Sam’s exposed asshole, his eyes intent.  “That’s it,” he muttered.  Then he put his fingers into his mouth.  Two of them.

Sam watching this.  He whimpered, involuntarily.  Dean suddenly grinned at him, his fingers still in his mouth.  If anything, this made him look scarier.  A hunter, enjoying his job.

Then Dean plunged his fingers into Sam’s asshole, stretching it out _hard._

Sam shrieked.  _“Ouch!  Dean!”_

“Quiet, you little bitch,” Dean said.  He was pushing down deep, _grinding_ his fingers into Sam’s ass, pushing the pads of his fingers against the walls of Sam’s ass.  “This is what you get, for bein a bitch.  And get those hands back over your head,” he added sharply.  Sam had been reaching out unconsciously for Dean’s hand, to stop its activities or at least try to moderate them.  Sam put his hands back over his head.  He was gasping for air, helplessly.  Dean’s long hard fingers, hooked into Sam’s body, curling into him deep inside, rubbing him relentlessly.  And then they found the smooth tight flesh of Sam’s prostate gland.  Those hard fingertips, digging sharply into the nerves there.

Sam shrieked again.  Then shivered, helplessly.

_“Omigod!  Dean!”_

Those fingers digging in, lighting up those deep deep nerves, the sensation ricocheting through Sam’s body.  And then Dean’s other hand, folding around the wet slick length of Sam’s cock.  Pumping him.  Thumbing him.

_“Ohh!”_

“Oh _what,_ bitch?”  And Dean’s strong, skilled fingers, working Sam like he knew how to do.  Sam was keening.

And Dean, working him.  He watched Sam rolling his head.  Whimpering.  _“Like_ that, huh?” Dean said.  There was a hard satisfaction in his voice.

Sam felt his whole body flushing, bearing down, the familiar ecstasy rising.  His asshole was clamped down tight against Dean’s fingers, his cock, slickly thrusting into Dean’s fist.  He began to shudder.

Dean pulled his hands away. 

And sat back.  Stared at Sam, silently.

 _“Dean!”_   Sam gasped.  _“C’mon…”_   His cock, his ass, throbbing, oh god oh god, with every nerve end singing, in agony now.  Agony.  An agony of pleasure suddenly taken away.  His hands moved helplessly towards his own cock.

“Don’t even _think_ about it!,” Dean snapped.

Sam clenched his hands into fists.  He was writhing on the bed.  Whimpering.  “Oh god…Dean… _please…”_

“Ask me.”  Dean’s voice was cold.

“Wh-what?”

“Ask me,” Dean said.  “For what you deserve.”

Sam blinking up at him.  Tears were in his eyes now.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “Please…”

“Ask me, bitch.”  Dean’s voice, expressionless.  “Or you don’t get anythin else.”

Sam staring up at him, agonized.  After a moment, he rolled over.  Got up on his hands and knees, pushing his ass into the air.  “Spank me,” he said.  His voice was trembling.

Dean didn’t move.  “What do you _say?”_ he asked coldly.

“Please,” Sam whispered.  He closed his eyes.  He could feel his upturned ass, trembling.

A spanking.  Okay.  Fine.  Dean would spank him, they’d get it over with and then they’d fuck.  And fuck and fuck and fuck. 

Because oh god.  _Dean._  

Dean’s mouth his hands his cock.  Sam needed those.  On him.  In him.  Now.

Dean didn’t move.

“Sure,” he said.  “But just so you know Sammy, I’m gonna spank you _hard._ No fun ‘n’ games this time.  You’re gettin punished for bein a teasin little bitch.  Are we clear _?”_

“Yes,” Sam whispered.  

“I didn’t hear you,” Dean said.

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered.

“You know you got it comin,” Dean said.  His voice hadn’t softened.  “Don’t you?”

“Yes Dean,” Sam whispered.  And then yelped.

At Dean’s hand, slamming hard down on his ass.  And again.  Sam yelped again, then moaned.  Dean hadn’t been kidding.  He wasn’t messing around here.  And then Dean’s hand, again and again, hard and fast, spanking Sam’s butt cheeks thoroughly, one then another, until they were burning and stinging.

Sam was moaning, wriggling helplessly. 

When Dean had spanked him with the hairbrush, he’d always been careful.  Never hitting Sam’s butt at full strength, just layering the spanks until each one felt like a tap of fire.  But when Dean spanked with his hand…if he chose to…if he was mad enough…he could sure hit hard.

Like now.

SPANK.

“OW! _Ow Dean! Ow!”_    Sam yelping.  Wriggling.

“Hard enough for you, bitch?” Dean asked him.  And spanking him again.  _Very_ hard.

“Yeah,” Sam moaned.  He was flinching under the blows.

“What was that?”  Spank _SPANK!_

Sam moaned.  “ _Yes_ Dean!”

“So what do you _say?”_ Dean said.  “For goin and makin me jealous like that?  _Flirtin_ , right under my _nose!”_

“I’m sorry,” Sam moaned.  Then, _“OW!”_

“Yeah,” Dean said.  And spanking him.  _Hard._   “You sure are.  That’s one sorry, red ass you got there, Sammy.”  And spanking Sam _again,_ really, _really_ hard.

_“Dean!”_

“That’s enough talkin Sammy.  You just put your head down ‘n’ take it.  Like you were doin when I was _fuckin_ you, earlier.”  And then Dean spanking him, even harder, his hand settling into a terrible, even rhythm.

SPANK SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

Sam was gasping, biting his lip.  He put his head down, like Dean had asked him to.  In spite of himself.

Taking it.

SPANK SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

Oh god.  His butt.  Throbbing and stinging, it was becoming the only thing Sam could think about.  The only thing he could focus on, Dean’s hand on him, spacing out the placement of the blows a little now, ensuring that every part of Sam’s butt received fair coverage.

Sam felt tears rising.  He tried to snuffle them back, the sound mortifying him.

Getting through this spanking.  So Dean would forgive him and they could deal with this in another way.  And maybe Dean would be prepared to listen to him once Sam showed him he’d taken his punishment.  And then fucked his brother’s brains out.

SPANK SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

Sam bit his lip.  He started to say something-

_(Dean c’n we stop, it’s time to fuck now, you need to get back into a good mood)_

-but didn’t. 

Because trying to talk to Dean right now, trying to get through to him…that wasn’t going to improve things.  Sam understood this from long experience.  He closed his eyes.

SPANK SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

But he really couldn’t take this anymore.  Maybe Dean was ready to listen to him.  “Ow,” Sam tried softly.  “Ow, Dean…please…”

Dean’s voice, still hard.  “Hurts, bitch?”  And SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

Sam yelping.  _“OW!”_   And then, against his better judgement,  “Dean c’n we just-“

“Shut up,” Dean said coldly.  And spanked him _hard._   Sam moaned.  “You know better,” Dean added.  “There’s only one thing I’m prepared to hear from you right now, Sammy.”  And spanking him.

SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

 _“Ow,”_ Sam gasped miserably. 

“Other than that.”  SPANK SPANK  _SPANK!_

Sam was rolling his head, tears of pain in his eyes.

“Well?”  Dean’s hard voice.  SPANK SPANK. _“Say it!”_ SPANK _SPANK!_

 _“Yes_ Dean,” Sam gasped.   

“Better,” Dean said.  And spanking him.  “’N’ what _else_ do you say?”

“Thank you,” Sam whimpered.  And now sniffling, tears falling.

Helplessly.

Sam was wicked smart.  He knew that.  Smarter than pretty much anyone in any room, on any given day.  Smarter than Dean.  Smarter than their dad.  Able to talk circles around both of them (and they _both_ appreciated that, of course).

But smart didn’t count for much when your ass was paying the price.  And his brother and dad were well aware of that too.

A spanking always shut Sam up, eventually.

Dean’s hand.  SPANK SPANK SPANK.  And Sam’s butt, throbbing.  Sam was starting to get desperate.  Surely this was enough punishment by now, surely Dean would let up on him.  And then they could move on.  To the rest of it.

He tried again.

“Dean…”

“Yeah?”  SPANK _SPANK._

“Ow…that’s enough…I’ve had _enough,_ okay?”

“Uh huh.”  SPANK _SPANK._   “So?”

 _“Ow!_    So…you _promised_ Dean…you promised you wouldn’t spank me unless I said you could!”  And that was true actually.  Maybe Dean would just stop, if Sam put it to him that way.  Used logic.  After all, fair was fair.  Sam turned and peered at Dean over his shoulder, hopefully.

And saw Dean’s eyes on him, ice cold.  Sam’s heart sank.  Dean raised his hand.  “Yup.  Well, I guess you said I could.”   His hand descended.  _SPANK!_

Sam writhing.  “OW!  Well now I’m sayin it’s _enough_ , c’mon Dean, _stop!”_

Dean shook his head.  “Uh uh.  That wasn’t our agreement.”  A pause.  Then, “What was our _agreement,_ Sammy?”  And spanking him.

SPANK SPANK _SPANK!_

Sam was writhing.  He didn’t say anything.

“Not answerin me?” Dean him asked after a moment.  “Fine.  We’ll just keep goin then.”  And spanking Sam even _harder._  

_SPANK SPANK!_

_SPANK SPANK!_

“Ow..ow…you said…you said…” Sam was whimpering. 

“Said _what,_ bitch?”  _SPANK SPANK SPANK!_

 _“Ow…_ you said that… _OW!_ –that once I said yes…everythin else was up to you,” Sam whimpered.

“That’s right,” Dean said.  “Memory’s comin back now huh?”  And spanking him.

“Dean…” Sam gasped.  “C’mon…”

“Once that butt of yours is in the air, _I_ decide when it’s comin down,” Dean said coldly.  And spanking him.  “And _I_ decide how much is enough.  Not you.”  And spanking him, _hard._

 _“OW, OW, OW!”_   Sam was bobbing his butt up and down now, humiliated but unable to stop. 

“’N’ you wouldn’t have _put_ it in the air, if you didn’t know you deserved it,” Dean said.  “You knew what was comin, Sammy.”

Spanking him.

Sam moaning.

“Didn’t you?” Dean asked him.  Spanking him.

“Yeah…” Sam said miserably.  Wriggling.

“You _knew_ you crossed the line.”  Dean’s voice was harsh.  And his hand, spanking, spanking.

Sam whimpering.  “Ow, oh, _OW_ Dean!  Please- ”

 _“- Say it!”_   SPANK _SPANK!_

 _“OW!_ Okay!  So I crossed the line!”Sam whimpered.

Dean’s hard voice.  “So are you _sorry_ you crossed the line, you little bitch?”  And then,

SPANK SPANK SPANK _SPANK!_

 _“OW!”_ Sam was crying freely now.  He couldn’t help it.

Because of Dean, still mad.  In spite of all this. 

Still mad.

And it didn’t look like they were going to move onto fucking anytime soon.

“Yeah,” Sam sniffled.  “Real sorry.”

“So you gonna do it again?”  And SPANK SPANK SPANK _SPANK!_

“Yeah,” Sam moaned.  “Probably.” 

And waited trembling.

For the next blow.

Which didn’t come. 

Dean’s voice.  “What?”

“I’m gonna do it again,” Sam said shakily.  “First chance I get.”

And waited.

Dean was still.  _“What?”_

“I’m gonna talk to Rhonda again,” Sam said.  “First chance I get.  ‘N’ I’m gonna try to make her _like_ me.”

 _“…WHAT?”_ Dean was poised behind Sam frozen.  His hand was still raised in the air, ready to descend on Sam’s butt.  Sam was aware of this.

 _“Why?”_ Dean asked him.

“Because I like _her,”_ Sam said.  He was trembling.  “I think she’s hot.  And why should it just be _you_ that gets to fool around with girls?”

Dean was silent.  Sam waited, still perched up on his elbows and knees.  His throbbing butt still held up obediently, high in the air. 

Trembling.  Waiting.

Dean grabbed Sam by his hips.  Flipped him over.  Sam landed hard on the bed.  He moaned as his sore butt hit the mattress.  Blinked up at Dean, through tears.

 _“What are you sayin to me?”_   Dean snapped.  He was glaring at Sam furiously.

Sam looked up at him.

At Dean, his beautiful blonde brother, crouched over Sam on the bed, glaring down at him with that perfect, furious face, the face of a deadly angel.

Dean, with those blazing green eyes, that mouth.

That perfect mouth, that Sam would see in his mind.

That mouth, the vision of it, in Sam’s mind.  Dreaming of it, Dean’s mouth opening under Sam’s mouth. 

_Dean._

Sam had wanted Dean’s mouth on him since he’d first started thinking about kissing.  His brother’s mouth.

Dean’s plush mouth, as pink and curvy as any girl’s.  Although right now it was set in a grim line.

“I’m sayin…why should it just be you?” Sam repeated to Dean shakily.  And staring at his brother.  That face.  That mouth.

“What – what the fuck does _that_ mean?”   Dean looked and sounded completely aggravated.  He leaned over Sam, grasped his upper arms and shook him.  Then held onto him like he was ready to flip Sam over and start spanking him all over again.

Sam saw this and quaked.  But then he made himself look into Dean’s eyes and smile.  Dean’s eyes widened. 

Sam shrugged Dean’s hands away.   He sat up naked on the bed, trying not to wince at the effect of that movement on his sore butt.  Faced Dean.  Then relaxed, deliberately, resting his arms on his knees.  Dean stared.

“You could have any girl you wanted,” Sam said.  He made his tone conversational.  “You could have _Rhonda,_ if you wanted.”

“…Yeah,” Dean said after a moment.  “So?”

“You take it so for granted,” Sam said.  “Girls like Rhonda…just _dyin_ for you…and you take it for granted, like it’s nothing.”

Dean blinked.  He looked embarrassed suddenly and Sam noticed that the tips of his ears had turned red.  “I can’t help if they’re like that, Sammy, c’mon,” he said.  “Are you holdin that against me?”

“No,” Sam said.  “’N’ I never have, either.  Because that was part of our _deal,_ remember?”

Dean stared at him.

“I’ve been watchin girls crush on you since forever,” Sam continued.  He didn’t sound so conversational now.  “And you told me you were gonna do somethin about it, sometimes.  You told me you _wanted_ to, sometimes.  And I’d have to put up with it and keep my mouth shut, if you ‘n’ me were gonna be together.”  He looked at Dean.  “And I have.”

Dean stared at him.  Sam looked back.  “And you did,” Sam said, eventually.  “You _did_ do something about it, sometimes.  And I watched.  And I kept my mouth shut.”

“I was doin that for _you,”_ Dean said after a moment.  “Like a smokescreen for Dad, so he wouldn’t start wonderin what you ‘n’ me were up to.”

Sam shrugged.  “I know,” he said.  “I know that was part of it.”  He looked at Dean.  “But you were also doin it because it was easy.”  Looked at Dean.  “Easier than tellin them no.  Because…you _knew_ I wasn’t gonna give you any trouble about it.  Because that was our deal.”

Dean didn’t answer. 

“And you let them come at you, like you were fair game,” Sam continued.  _“You_ flirted Dean.  Flirted right back.  Right under my nose.  Because it was easy and it was kind of fun, wasn’t it, gettin all that attention.”  Dean was quiet.  “And because you had somethin to prove,” Sam added.  “And not just to _Dad.”_

Dean suddenly looked at him.

Sam looked back.  “You wanted to prove somethin to yourself,” he said.  “You wanted to prove that fuckin _me_ …the fact that I’m a _boy_ …that _that_ was just a fluke.”

Dean, staring at him.

“You wanted to show that you could go with girls, anytime,” Sam said.  “That _girls_ were where you were at, even if you were fuckin your little brother.”

Dean, staring.

“And me _watchin_ you, tryin to prove that,” Sam continued softly.  “Ever since we’ve been together.”

Dean looked away.  “I never fucked any of ‘em,” he said, defensively.  “I never did that, Sammy, so be fair.  And I had my opportunities.”

“Oh, I know,” Sam said.  And he felt a great anger behind his words suddenly.  Anger like fire, raging behind a wall.  Unseen.  But there.  “I know you had your opportunities.  You walk into a _room,_ you have your opportunities, Dean.  Don’t think I don’t know it.”

Dean looked at him quickly.  “Sammy c’mon,” he said.  “You’ve always been first with me and you know it.  I’ve _never_ cheated on you.  Give me some credit, here.”

“You’ve never cheated on me in the _literal_ sense,” Sam said.  “But you’ve been tempted.  Haven’t you?”

Dean looked down.

Sam, staring at him.  “Haven’t you?” he said.  And he heard his voice becoming harsh. 

He’d promised Dean he wouldn’t be jealous.  As a condition, of having him.  Of having Dean come to him, like Sam had been dying for. 

The promise of a thirteen year old boy who’d never known a kiss.  Except for his brother’s.

Dean’s kiss.  That mouth, kissing him.  Sam dying for it.

Sam _dying,_ for his beautiful older brother.  Crushing on him, _loving_ him, beyond reason.  Because how could he not?  Dean the golden son, the oldest, John’s hunting partner, so cherished by their dad, his beautiful son Dean, John’s creation, the one thing their dad had been _able_ to create, out of the devastation that was their family.  Dean, their dad’s right hand, raising Sam on John’s say. 

But then Dean had raised Sam with a fierce, tender protective love that had nothing to do with their dad’s expectations.  That love had been all his. 

All Dean’s.  That love he’d given to Sam.  Never questioning Sam’s right to it.  Never considering what that love would come to mean to his sensitive younger brother, who’d grown up knowing nothing but the hunter’s life, a reluctant citizen of that harsh secret country, forced to exist as best he could under their dad’s cold, inimical gaze.  Increasingly sad and desolate.  Sam, growing up alone except for Dean’s love, as life giving as the sun.

Dean’s fierce love for him.  And Sam had eventually wanted _all_ of it, not just the love of a brother.

He’d wanted everything Dean had to give.  He’d _wanted_ that.

And he’d campaigned and begged and promised for it.  Promised whatever he had to.  To Dean, to get him.  He’d agreed to _all_ of Dean’s stipulations, including the requirement not to be jealous.

Of his older brother, _way_ out of Sam’s league, separated from Sam by the impossible gap of four years, this tough, dangerous, beautiful youth who attracted girls (and grown women and yeah, men too) like flies.

And Sam had kept that promise.  And put up with _Dean’s_ jealousy, in the meantime, like Dean had every right to it.

Sam hated Dean suddenly.

 _“Well?”_ he said.  _“Haven’t you?”_

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly.  His face was flushed.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.  “You’ve been pretty fuckin tempted.  At times.  I know it Dean, I’m not stupid.  And not just with _girls,_ either.”

Dean glanced at him quickly.  He looked horrified.

“You were tempted with _Phil,”_ Sam said.  “Weren’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about him Sammy, Jesus,” Dean muttered.  His face was bright red now.

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Okay.  But my _point is_ …Dean…that I accepted it.  I put up with it.  Because I get it.”

Dean looked at him again.

“I get it,” Sam repeated quietly.  “Because it’s _normal_ to be tempted sometimes.  It's natural.”

Dean staring at him, silent. 

“And especially in our situation,” Sam continued.  “With you ‘n’ me always bein a secret…with everyone out there always thinkin you’re fair game.  Like it’d be _weird_ even, if you just ignored them all the time.”

Dean nodded.  He was listening, Sam saw.

“And me _too,”_ Sam added.  “I’m fair game _too.”_

He saw Dean’s hackles rise.

“It’s _true,”_ Sam said.  “’N’ you know it Dean.”

Dean glared at him. 

“People are gonna come at me like that too,” Sam said relentlessly.  “Not knowin, about us.  It’s not gonna stop with Rhonda.”

“But you’re not gonna _do_ anythin about it,” Dean said dangerously.  He was watching Sam like a hawk now.  Hunter’s eyes.

Sam seeing this.  He swallowed. 

And then said, “Why shouldn’t I?”

Dean hit him.

Hard, with a heavy open handed blow.  Right across the face.

Sam’s hand went to his cheek.  He stared at Dean, tears welling in his eyes. 

Dean stared back.  Tears were in his eyes too.

“Sammy,” Dean said.  “I’m sorry.”  His voice was appalled.

“I know,” Sam said.  And staring at Dean, his hand covering his stinging cheek.

 _“Jesus_ I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean whispered brokenly.

Sam staring at him.

“You c’n hit me back okay?” Dean said.  “Take your best shot.”  And he lifted his chin.

Sam looked at this, his brother’s beautiful face, raised up to him.  Hitting Dean, hitting that face.  Sam shook his head.  “No.” 

Dean watched Sam helplessly.  He looked devastated.  Sam saw his lips trembling.  “That’s not what I want to do with you,” Sam said quietly.

Dean, watching him.

And Sam, looking back, seeing his brother’s beautiful, devastated face, Dean’s expression so vulnerable suddenly.  Open.

_(Why shouldn’t I?)_

“I want to fuck you,” Sam said.

Dean stared.  His lips parted.

Suddenly Sam was on top of him.  He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed.  Straddled him, pressing his hard cock between Dean’s legs, the rough fabric of Dean’s jeans scraping.

“Sammy!  What-“ Dean was trying to get up.  Sam pushed him down.  “No,” he said.  He was undoing Dean’s belt, unzipping him.  Dean’s hands on him.  “Sam, cut it-“

 _“-No.”_   Sam moved Dean’s hands away, grabbing both Dean’s wrists, digging his thumbs into the pressure points. 

_“Ouch!”_

“Sorry.”  Sam released him then pulled Dean’s jeans and shorts roughly down his legs.  Rapidly, before Dean could start to struggle.

Which he did, trying to sit up again.  “Sammy, you’re not-“

Sam put an elbow into his brother’s diaphragm.  Leaned down, sharply.

 _“Ouch!  Fuck!”_   Dean was coughing helplessly.

“Sorry.”  And Sam taking advantage of this, stripping his brother quickly, Dean naked from the waist down now, that thick hard cock of his standing up against his flat belly.  Sam was on top of him again, he couldn’t help it.  He rubbed his own cock against Dean’s.  Felt his brother shudder.  “Just stay down, okay?” Sam said to him.  He was nuzzling under Dean’s ear, nipping at his throat. 

“I’m _not_ gonna-“ And Dean was struggling to sit up.  Sam put a hand under his chin, curving his fingers around Dean’s throat.  Dug his fingers in. 

“Agh!” Dean gagged.  “Hey-“  Sam pushed Dean’s head down.  “Stay still,” he said.  “I mean it.”  But then he kissed him.  Hard.  _Ground_ his mouth down on Dean’s.  And kept his hand on Dean’s throat.  Leaned in.

Dean was gagging.  He tried to struggle up.  Sam wasn’t having any of that.  He dug his fingers in harder.  Leaned down with his weight.  Dean yelped under his mouth.

“You think you’re the only one who gets to be jealous?” Sam asked.  He was speaking against Dean’s mouth.  “Me…watchin the whole world want to _fuck_ you, day after day, bein _understandin…”_

“Sammy, stop it- “ Dean said.  He was gasping for air.  “I don’t want to have to hurt you…”

“-Then don’t,” Sam said.  “Just stay still.  You’ve done enough to me for one day anyway.  Now it’s my turn.”  He’d released Dean’s throat but he had Dean’s face in both hands now, kissing him.  “Me waitin for you…all those times…” Sam said softly.  And kissing Dean, kissing him.  “Waitin…’n’ then you comin back to me, smellin like someone else…marks on your neck…”  Kissing him.  “…’N’ you expectin me to _ignore_ all that like it didn’t _mean_ anything…”  And kissing him.

Dean had started to soften under all the kisses.  But now he wrenched his mouth away.  “-But it _didn’t_ mean anythin, Sammy!”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “Maybe not to _you,_ it didn’t.”  And he put his hand on Dean’s jaw, turned his brother’s mouth back to him.  And kissed him again, putting his tongue deep in Dean’s mouth, thrusting his cock hard between Dean’s legs.  “Well you’re makin it up to me now,” Sam whispered.  And kissing him.

Dean was gasping.  “Sam-“

“Shhh,” Sam said.  “You just lie there big brother.  Let me do the work, for once.”

He put a finger into his mouth.  Then put his wet finger between Dean’s legs, worming it into the hot crack between Dean’s butt cheeks.  Found Dean’s asshole and slipped his finger inside.  Pushed it in, deep.

Dean gasped. 

“I’m gonna fuck you big brother,” Sam whispered to him.  And his finger, deep in Dean’s ass, the hot tight walls of Dean’s ass convulsing around him.  Sam slipped his tongue inside Dean’s mouth and stroked him, his brother’s exquisite mouth, opening to him.  “Why should it just be _you,_ who gets to have a piece of ass?”  Sam murmured.

And he felt Dean’s mouth softening, opening.  “Yeah,” Sam whispered.  And his finger, hooked into Dean’s body, seeking out that hidden spot, that _good_ spot, that Dean would find in _him_ so effortlessly, sending Sam to the moon. 

Dean moaned against Sam’s mouth.  “Yeah, that’s it,” Sam whispered.  And pressing, _rubbing_ with his finger now, pressing against that hidden spot, delicately then hard.   Dean was shuddering. 

“Raise your legs big brother,” Sam whispered to him.  “Let me in.”  And he felt Dean start to raise his legs.  Sam moved back to give him room.  He felt a fierce satisfaction taking him over, looked triumphantly into Dean’s flushed, beautiful face.  Met Dean’s eyes.

Which were fixed on Sam, wide and raw.

“No,” Dean said.  And then he backed up, pushing himself away from Sam.  Sam leaned forward thoughtlessly, his hands out to grab Dean and yank his brother back to him.  Dean held up a hand.  _“No,”_ he said.  He was breathing hard.  “Stop, Sammy.”

Sam stared at him.  Dean was ready for his cock, Sam had seen that, he’d seen it in his brother’s expression.  Stopping.  Not an option.  Sam reached out.   Dean grabbed his hands.  _“No,”_ he said.  “You want that Sam…you’re gonna have to fight me for it.”

Sam stared.

Dean stared back.  “You’ve forgotten what I said,” he said.

Sam stared at him.  Dean’s voice was firm.  But his voice didn’t match his expression, which was broken open, full of distress.  The parted lips.  And Dean’s breath, shuddering.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Sam replied after a moment.  And he was conscious of his own eyes, intent on Dean, of his awareness of Dean’s position on the bed relative to his own, of his thoughts on how to best grab Dean and pin him down, to fight him into submission and render him helpless so that Sam _could_ fuck him.  And fuck him fuck him fuck him. 

And it was doable.  Risky, with the chance of both him and Dean getting really hurt, if Sam attacked and Dean defended himself for real, both of them trained killers, like they were.  But doable.  And Sam, considering the ways and means.  Coldly, rapidly, with his hunter’s mind. 

And then seeing Dean holding himself still.  Ready.   In recognition of that look on Sam’s face.  Dean acknowledging it.  Preparing for it.

Sam sat back.  He watched Dean, his chest heaving.  And stayed still, gradually getting himself back under control.

“So that’s still the way things are huh,” he said eventually.  He saw Dean relax, cautiously. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Won’t be long now,” Sam said.  “Before I c’n beat you, hands down.”  He gazed at Dean steadily.  “I’m already bigger ‘n’ you.”

Dean looked back.  “We’ll see about that,” he said.  And he was quiet.

Sam considered him.  That mouth, that he’d seen trembling, soft with distress.  And those wide, raw eyes.  Those eyes on Sam, watching him.  Fixed on him.

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth then,” Sam said after a moment.  “Lie back.”

Dean hesitated.  But then lay down on the bed on his back.  Looked up at Sam.

Sam crawled over him and turned himself around so that his cock was positioned over Dean’s mouth.  “Open up,” he said.  After a moment of hesitation, Dean opened his mouth.

Sam thrust himself into his brother’s mouth, quickly, somewhat carelessly.  He felt Dean gag.  “Take it,” he whispered to Dean.  “Take it, like you want to.”  And thrust deep down his brother’s throat.  Dean gagged again, but then recovered, closing his mouth tight around Sam’s cock, his tongue curling around the shaft.

Sam closed his eyes.  “That’s it,” he whispered.  And then he buried his head between Dean’s legs, taking his brother’s cock into his own mouth.  And sucked it back, hard.  He felt Dean shudder and moan, choked against Sam’s cock.  And Sam working him now, working him hard, feeling Dean’s mouth on him, that hot beautiful mouth that had trembled under Sam’s gaze, now fastened tight over Sam’s cock, and the two of them starting to _devour_ each other now, both dizzy with rising pleasure, that hot, tight wheel of pleasure spinning, and now spilling into each other, with Sam coming hard, spilling hard into Dean’s mouth, uncontrolled, messy, Dean coughing as he lay under Sam, choking on Sam’s come even as he shuddered in his own ecstasy and Sam barely aware of this as he came, convulsing with pleasure but not forgetting to suck sweetly down on Dean’s pulsing cock.  To suck his beautiful, stubborn, shuddering brother dry.

Dean coughing, choking. 

Sam let him up eventually.  Dean struggled up onto his hands and knees, his head bent down over the bed, coughing.  Sam pounded him on the back.

 _“Shit,_ Sammy,” Dean said eventually.  He was red, with tears running down his cheeks.  “You fuckin nearly _drowned_ me.”

“Sorry,” Sam said.  He was still pounding Dean on the back.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He coughed again then wiped a hand over his mouth.  Sat back.  “Stop that,” he said irritably.  Sam’s hand stilled.  But he didn’t remove it.  He left it resting on Dean, feeling his brother’s heaving breath, gradually slowing under his palm. 

Dean with his strong smooth back, curved under Sam’s hand.  Sam felt a great tenderness for him suddenly.  “I love you, Dean,” he said, tentatively.

Dean glanced up at him.  He raised his eyebrows.  But then said, “I love you too.”   He sounded less irritable now.

Sam looked at him.  Dean, sitting naked before him, so gorgeous.  Big brother.

Stubborn as fuck.  And annoying as hell.  But still beautiful.  Gorgeous.  Worth taking some trouble with.  And Sam still wanted to fuck him. 

Badly.  But he didn’t want to fuck Dean, hurt.

“You sayin…that I have to _fight_ you,” Sam said.  “If I want to fuck you.”

Dean looked at him.  Warily.  “Yeah?”

“You’re sayin I have to rape you,” Sam said.  “When it really comes down to it.  That’s what you’re really sayin.”

Dean didn’t answer.  But Sam felt him tense suddenly, the smooth muscles under Sam’s hand bunching up.

Sam stroked his hand soothingly over Dean’s back.  “Shhh,” he said.  Stroking.  Then said, “Don’t worry.  That’s not gonna happen, Dean.”

Dean looked at him.  Sam stroked him.

“I don’t want my first time to be that way,” Sam said to him quietly.

Dean didn’t answer. 

 _“Why?”_ Sam asked him.  “Why do _you_ want it to be that way?”

Dean stayed silent.  He looked down. 

A silence, stretching out.

Sam, stroking him.

“…Dean?”  Sam asked.

Dean didn’t respond.

“Aren’t you gonna answer me?” Sam asked.  And stroking, running his hand gently over his brother’s back.

Dean had closed his eyes.  “I can’t,” he whispered eventually. 

Silence.

“Can’t _what?”_ Sam asked him.  And stroking Dean’s back, his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles, the silky, freckly skin, Dean always so pale, burning in the sun unlike Sam and their dad, who would tan a dark brown within hours.  Dean, Dean’s delicate skin over that hard sculpted muscle, Dean so beautiful beautiful. 

Sam had stopped stroking him.  His hand, now resting motionless on Dean’s body.

Dean stayed silent.  Sam was still, waiting.

“I can’t answer that, Sammy,” Dean said eventually.  He sounded shattered.

Now Sam was silent.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered.  And silent again.  

But Sam recognized it suddenly.  

The silence.  Deep, and cold.  And vast.  Freezing any words.  Smothering Dean, like snow.

Dean, silent to himself.

_(I can’t)_

_(answer)_

And Sam, seeing this. 

“I think Rhonda’s started to like me,” Sam said after a moment.  “It’s not all about _you_ anymore.  Dean.”

Dean opened his eyes.  “So?” he asked.   His voice had tightened.

“So I want to do something about it,” Sam said.  He gazed at Dean steadily.  “And I’m gonna.”  And he felt Dean’s muscles tighten under his hand, tight as wire.

“You can’t,” Dean said immediately.

“Why not?” Sam said.  He kept his voice reasonable.

“She’s too old for you,” Dean said.  “And you’re only _fifteen,_ anyways, Sammy.  It’s too soon for you to be thinkin about stuff like that.”

Sam laughed.  “You’re _kidding_ right?”

Dean was quiet.  But then he said, “You can’t Sammy.  Forget it.  I won’t let you.”

“How’re you gonna stop me?” Sam asked him. 

Dean stared.

“You plannin to tie me up?”  Sam asked him.  _“Beat_ me again?  Kill me?”

Dean looked pained.  “Stop it Sammy,” he said.

Sam looked at him.  “Well, what’re you gonna _do_ to me Dean, if I don’t just shut up and do what you want?”  And he looked at his brother, the wide, angry green eyes.  “What _can_ you do?” Sam asked him.  “Other than leave me?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“…Would you?” Sam asked him softly.  “Leave me?”

Dean, silent.

“Dean?” Sam asked.  “Would you?”

Dean looked back at him.  “No,” he said, after a moment.  His voice was raw.  “I wouldn’t.  You _know_ that Sammy.”  And the green eyes, glimmering now.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Looking at his brother.  “I do know it.”

Dean looking back at him, helplessly.

“Because you love me,” Sam said.  And he then started stroking Dean again, very gently.  “You could never leave me.”

Dean closed his eyes.

“You love me,” Sam repeated.  Staring at his brother.  Stroking him.  “More than anything else.  ‘N’ you want me to be happy.  More than anythin.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“You said that to me _,”_ Sam said.  “You promised.”  Staring at Dean.  And he felt that expression cover his face again.  That intent, considering, watchful expression.  The face of a hunter.

Dean didn’t see it though.  His eyes were still closed. 

Sam kept stroking him.  “You love me,” Sam said.  “More than anything.”  And he heard his own voice, the smooth dark timbre of it.  Like whiskey, Dean had told him, the sound of Sam’s voice. 

“And I…love you,” Sam murmured to Dean, and he saw his brother’s face twist.  “More than anything.”

And stroking Dean’s back.  “I want you,” Sam said softly.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. 

“I’ve always wanted you,” Sam repeated.  “I’ve been willin to do… _anything…”_   And he felt his own expression twist.

Wanting Dean. He _had_ been willing to do anything, for that.  And he had.  He did, still.

He reached out and took Dean’s hand.  Felt his brother’s fingers fold around his.

“And I’ve _got_ you,” Sam murmured to him.  He rubbed his thumb over Dean’s hand.  “Say it.”

“You’ve got me,” Dean whispered.  He’d opened his eyes again.  But he was staring at Sam with this painful, yearning look.  As if Sam was there, in front of him, tantalizingly, but also separated from him by this impossible, impassible distance, a chasm between them, descending down down into darkness, into vast depths buried in shadow. 

Dean, staring at Sam mutely.

And Sam was cold suddenly, seeing this look.  He shivered.

 _“You’ve got me,”_ Dean had said.  But his eyes, staring at Sam from across a silent abyss.

Sam felt chilled to the bone.  But then he smiled at his brother, with an effort. 

Because of Dean’s eyes, on him.  Still fixed on Sam, hopeful.

“I love you,” Sam whispered.  “And if I end up fuckin Rhonda…”

Dean’s eyes widened.  Sam immediately gripped his hand tightly, mindful of the possibilities.  Of new violence.  He felt Dean’s hand jerk against his hold.

But then Dean settled.  He stayed motionless, just listening to Sam’s words. 

Listening, in silence.

“I want you there,” Sam said to him.  “I want you watching.”


	41. Chapter 41

Rhonda was standing out back of the diner, smoking.

She was shivering in the cold air – hadn’t bothered to put on her jacket.  Sometimes you just wanted to act like winter was _over,_ you know?  Even when it wasn’t.

She sucked back on the cigarette (her first and last cigarette of the day, she’d started smoking it after taking on full time hours at the diner, a secret indulgence during a depressing time – secret from her _mom_ that is, her mom would freak she found out Rhonda had _ever_ touched a cigarette –Rhonda supposed to keep in training for track, and anyway, as a former oncology nurse, Rhonda’s mom had stories) the hot smoke searing her lungs enjoyably and impacting their capacity at the same time.   Rhonda knew all about the hazards of smoking alright.  But god, she could see its appeal too.  Nothing beat standing in the cold wind with a cigarette if you needed to clear your head.  Especially if your job meant dealing with yo-yos like Sam and Dean (and _especially_ Dean, although right now Sam wasn’t too far behind).

So Rhonda gazed absently into the laneway.   Smoking _(sorry, Mom/sorry, lungs)._  

Thinking.

Shelley would complain about the butts her employees left here, make one of them sweep them up every few days.  Shelley wasn’t a smoker and neither was Cal, and they didn’t allow _any_ smoking in the diner, from either customers or staff.  So Patricia and Rhonda and Norm would smoke back here (and Jackson too, occasionally, sneaking a butt from the others, Jackson not too worried they would ever rat on him, what with him being the diner’s part time dishwasher –everyone hated _that_ job- and resident pet).  

Until the diner had acquired _another_ pet of course…

…Sam Winchester.

 _Dean’s_ little brother.

Who’d shown up as soon as Dean started working here, settling into the booth nearest to Dean like it was home, spreading his books and papers out comfortably, so sure of his welcome, so comfortable under the care of the Cal’s Diner staff, all falling over themselves to feed and water him.

Because he was Dean’s brother, and that was the _deal,_ apparently, that Dean had worked out with Cal and Shelley.

Sam.  What a little suck.

But he got away with it though. 

Rhonda didn’t quite understand it, how Sam had managed to get all of them, her, Patricia and _Shelley_ (who was no pushover) _jumping_ to fulfill his every little request. 

But they did, though.

And then Sam, blinking up at all of them so sweetly before absorbing his (coffee icecream hamburgers pie fish ‘n’ chips fries ‘n’ gravy).  Or various other items, prepared for him lovingly by his devastatingly gorgeous older brother, who’d _also_ jump to take care of him (yeah, Rhonda had noticed), Dean rolling his eyes as Rhonda handed him Sam’s yellow order slips but also cooking up a _storm_ for him, heaping Sam’s plate high and putting it on the counter for Rhonda to pick up with this look of quiet pleasure on his face…like feeding his little brother was just _it_ for him…and Rhonda’s heart hurt whenever she saw that look on Dean’s face.

Because she’d give a lot to be the one to put that look on Dean’s face.

Because… _Dean._   God.  Shit.  Holy shit.

Rhonda had never met anyone like him.

A boy like that, as beautiful as a girl.  But not like a girl, not at all, not with that _body,_ those _arms,_ god.  And that face, too.  A beautiful face.  But not feminine, not at all.  A beautiful, male face. 

Dean definitely a guy.  But not your typical guy.  Not your typical hot guy, even.  Dean was miles more than that.  And Rhonda simply didn’t know how to react to him (other than helplessly, which was goddamn embarrassing, especially considering that it was _her_ who was reacting like that).   Rhonda Hurley, who was _skilled_ at dealing with guys.  Because she’d had to be.

Rhonda had a whole repertoire for dealing with guys, built up over time.  Since she’d discovered (quite young, and along with the rest of the world) that she was beautiful and that guys would just… _react_ to that.

Staring at her (a _lot,_ and all ages of guys too, not just the guys _her_ age).  Flirting with her, teasing her sometimes in a nice way, sometimes not so nice.  Crushing on her, in school, mainly from a distance, most boys intimidated by her, too shy (or conservative in their outlook) to approach, Rhonda not being exactly your stereotypical cute highschool cheerleader type (but she _noticed_ them crushing okay, she wasn’t stupid).  And then the bolder guys who’d actively try to get her attention, putting themselves into her space (mostly harmlessly, like _eye rolling_ harmlessly but sometimes…not so harmlessly).

So she’d learned.  How to deal with male attention.  And how to fend it off sometimes (or like, _most_ of the time because you know, most guys just weren’t _worth_ her time).

Because most guys just plain didn’t get her.  All they saw was her face, her body.  And that was enough for them, apparently, to think that they could just deal with her in a certain way.  Like the fact that she’d attracted their attention…their _interested_ attention…this stunning babe…like that was the main thing about her.  The babe.  Forget _Rhonda_ , Jeannie’s kid (you know, Jeannie _…_ Shelley’s cousin, who’d moved to the city for a few years…and married a _black_ guy…), top-of-the-class student, long distance runner _(those lonely miles, adding up)_ …most guys didn’t get that far.

And fuck them all, truly.  Rhonda had no sympathy for them.  Let them stare, whistle, make comments.  Make idiots of themselves.  She had better things to think about, like getting out of this shitkicker of a town as soon as possible.  As soon as she had enough money saved up.

So, no sympathy.   Definitely not seeing the _guys’_ side of things, those assholes.

Until Dean showed up at Cal’s Diner, early one morning, right after Rhonda had put on the day’s first pot of coffee.

Rhonda hadn’t noticed Dean’s looks, at first.  All she’d seen was this tall, broad shouldered, blonde dude, wearing a shabby green army surplus jacket and faded blue jeans.  A stranger, she’d never noticed him around town before.  And with a wicked looking black eye. 

He’d entered the diner almost immediately after she’d unlocked the door, closing it firmly behind him against the cold blast of early morning November air.  It was still dark outside.  Rhonda watched him cautiously.  Norm was here, in the back, working first shift today (normally Cal took first shift, but today he was running some errand, with Shelley).  And Rhonda was all alone at the front, no other customers in yet (normally the diner’s first customer of the day was Mr. Morgan, Alec’s dad, who’d drop in on the way to his autobody shop and pick up a coffee to go).  And Norm was about as threatening as a glass of milk.  No way he’d be up for a confrontation if this stranger turned out as scary as he looked.  Rhonda would have to handle things.

The young man approached the counter.  And Rhonda noticed the way he carried himself immediately, walking towards her with a surety of movement that signalled someone completely at home in his own body. 

Because he’d pushed that body to its limits and taken its measure. 

This stranger, moving with the fierce grace of an athlete.  Rhonda felt a thrum of recognition, seeing that.  She moved like that too.

“Hi,” the young man said.  “I need two coffees to go.”  His voice was light and cool, with a hint of drawl.  “One black ‘n’ one black with two sugars.” Now that he was closer to her he didn’t look quite so scary.  He was young, Rhonda saw, not really a man yet, still a boy.  About her age.  With a pale, fine boned face and a shock of dark blonde hair.  And pretty, he was _pretty._   In spite of the black eye.  She noticed this now and _noticed_ herself noticing (I mean, when was the last time she’d looked at a guy and thought he was _pretty?_   Like, never).  But his expression was serious and rather forbidding.  But maybe that was just because of the black eye.  It looked painful.

“Pot’s not quite ready,” Rhonda said.  “It’ll just be a minute.”

Pretty boy seemed unhappy about this.  He glanced at his watch, frowning.  _“How_ long?” he asked abruptly.  “I’m kinda in a rush, here.”

Oh.  Okay.  Well, good morning to you _too._

“Like…a _minute,”_ Rhonda said.  Looked at him.  “Like I said.”

Pretty boy looked back.  Rhonda saw him noticing her suddenly, that familiar double take, and then the dawn of male appreciation, gleaming in his eyes.

Those leaf green eyes, strikingly beautiful (one of them, anyway, the other one puffed practically shut).

“Okay,” the young man said.  “I guess spendin another minute round _you_ won’t do me any damage.”  And then he smiled at her.  All charm.

Rhonda’s eyes widened.  That smile, like a hundred watt lightbulb, lighting up his whole face.  And his face was was stunning suddenly, stunning to the eye, that painful looking bruise irrelevant.  Almost.

“Right.  Well it doesn’t look like _you_ could _take_ any more damage,” she said.  And she smiled back.  Sort of.  Smiled, as in, _Oh, so you think you can flirt with me now?  After coming in here like a jerk?  _

But now he’d stopped smiling, like her words had flipped a switch.  And Rhonda noticed that too, how cold his expression was suddenly, his face like a perfectly carved marble statue, pale and cold, with that bruise standing out like a stain.  He looked away from her, not answering.

Oh.  Had she hurt pretty boy’s feelings?  Now _Rhonda_ felt a bit like the jerk.  Which was ridiculous, because it’s not like _this_ dude cared about manners, what with starting off so abrupt with her and then smarmy.  But she wasn’t about to make nice and play the friendly waitress with him now.  Somehow, they’d moved beyond that.  She gazed silently at his face, turned away from her, the bruise hidden.  That perfect profile, coin clean, that pure line of brow, nose, mouth, chin…a perfect, pure silhouette, as clear as a paper cutout, as hard and sharp as a blade. 

In profile his face wasn’t pretty anymore.  It was perfect, but hard.

The coffee burbled.

Rhonda turned, selected two cardboard cups and poured the coffee into them.  Put lids on them.  Took them over to the counter.  Rang them up.  “That’ll be a dollar forty,” she said.  He had his wallet out, handed her two dollar bills.  She gave him his change. 

“Do you have a tray?” he asked.  “I need to take these in my car.”

Rhonda shook her head.  “No,” she said.  “But-“

 _“-Shit!”_ he said.

Rhonda fell silent, looking at him.  The young man was glaring at the two coffee cups.  “I can’t take ‘em like _that,”_ he said.  “My car doesn’t have cupholders, I’ll have to drive _holdin_ ‘em somehow.”

O _-kay_ …what kind of econocar was _he_ driving?  Maybe that explained the shabby clothes.  And… _swearing_ at her now?  What a jerk.

“Sorry to hear that,” Rhonda said to him.  She didn’t say anything else.

He glanced up, met her eyes.  And Rhonda was shocked at how upset he looked.  An open, raw, distressed expression on that perfect face, like an angel who’d just received bad news.  _“Fine,”_ he said. “Where’s the sugar?”

Rhonda nodded towards a bowl of paper sugar packets on the counter, a couple of feet down from where they were both standing.  “There,” she said.  She didn’t offer to get it for him.

In a flash he was beside the bowl.  Plucked out two packets of sugar.  Now he was back at the counter in front of Rhonda.  Picked up one of the paper cups.  “Thanks,” he said to her shortly.  Then he turned away, leaving the other cup on the counter.  He was at the door of the diner, pushing it open before Rhonda could think to react.

“Hey!” she called after him, “What about the-“

“I’m leavin it,” he said over his shoulder.  “Gonna be _late_ and _this_ is the coffee I need to show up with.”   He was gone.

Rhonda stared after him.  She was breathing rapidly she noticed, her heart pounding in her chest.  What the hell had just happened?  That bruised, beautiful face, that green gaze, those raw eyes, staring at her. 

So distressed.  I mean, she’d never thought of coffee as an _emotional_ thing.  

Rhonda was crouched down, hunting around under the counter.  She located the stack of aluminum pie plates Shelley kept for her pies and a stack of flat bottomed round cardboard ice cream cartons.  She pulled out a pie plate and two cartons, darted around the counter, picked up the coffee that the young man had left there, upended the two cartons over the coffee cup and walked rapidly to the door.

Opened it, staring out.  The young man was climbing into a _badass_ black vintage fourdoor sedan, polished to a high gleam, parked right outside the diner.  As Rhonda watched, he settled himself into the driver’s seat and put the coffee cup he was holding between his thighs, wincing and swearing (the cup was hot, of course).  Rhonda ran up as he was reaching out to close the door.  “Hey!”

The young man looked up.  After a moment he said, “Yeah?”

Rhonda held out the pie plate.  “Here,” she said.   He hesitated then took it.  “What’s this for?”

“It’s for these,” Rhonda answered.  She picked up the two paper cartons and held them out to him.  “They fit nice ‘n’ tight, won’t move around.”

He stared at her.  “Go on,” she said.  Handed him the cartons.  He took them from her slowly.  Rhonda nodded at the pie plate.  “Go on,” she said.  “Try it.  Bend the edges.  You’ll see what I mean.”

The young man looked at her then put the two cartons into the pie plate.  He bent the pie plate’s aluminum edges to fit around them, snugly.  Then he looked at her again.  Rhonda nodded encouragingly.  “That’s it.  See?  Now put it down.”  The young man put the pie plate on the passenger seat beside him.  Rhonda handed him the coffee cup.  “Now you put this inside.  It shouldn’t fall over.”  The young man took the cup from her and put it into one of the paper cartons snugged into the pie plate.  Then he took the other cup from between his thighs and placed it in the second carton.  Looked back at her.  “There you go,” Rhonda said.  “There’s your tray.”

“Thanks,” the young man said.  He was staring at her uncertainly.  With surprise maybe, that she’d helped him out.  “That’s great.”

“You’re welcome,” Rhonda said.   And she smiled at him. 

He smiled back, rather shyly.  “Appreciate that,” he said.

Rhonda was gazing down at his face, that shy, surprised smile.  The young man looked pretty again.  Heartbreakingly pretty.  Beautiful actually.  A bruised angel.  “Didn’t want you to go without your coffee,” she said.  “Kinda looked like you could use it.”

He grinned, a little ruefully now.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You got _that_ right.”  Then his expression turned polite.  “Well…gotta go.  Gotta get to work.  Can’t be late my first day.  Thanks again, huh?”

Rhonda wasn’t ready to let him go yet.  “Where’re you working?” she asked him.

“M P Auto,” he said.

Rhonda’s eyes widened.  “You’re working with _Mr. Morgan?”_

He looked at her.  “Phil,” he said.  “You know him?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “That’s Phil Morgan.  He comes in here most mornings.”  Gestured at the tray.  “That’s _his_ coffee, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Rhonda nodded.  “Black, two sugars.  Shoulda known.  Didn’t know he was _hiring_ anyone, though.”

“He’s tryin me out,” the young man said.  He’d stopped smiling.  His green eyes on her, an anxious look in them now.  “Seein how I do for the day.  I should go.”

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  “Well…” she stopped.  She wanted to say something clever.  Or nice.  Something that would put bring that shy, surprised smile back to this pretty face (this pretty young man, clearly nervous about his first day on the job, it was endearing.  And working with _Alec’s dad_ …Mr. Morgan with the reputation of being a real hardass…it was understandable).  But that green gaze.  It was distracting.  “Good luck,” she said, lamely. 

And gazed at him helplessly.  And then she saw him notice this.

The young man smiled again but not the smile she was aiming for.  He smiled up at her, charmingly.  A practiced smile, the smile of someone who knew they were attractive to others.  And took it for granted, just something to be dealt with.  Rhonda recognized that smile.  She’d used it herself, plenty of times.  “Thanks cutie,” he said.  And his voice matched his smile now. 

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  She felt ridiculously disappointed.   Let down, somehow.

_Cutie._

The young man looked at her.  “Might be seein you around again if I don’t get fired today,” he said in a nicer tone.  “What’s your name?”

“Rhonda,” she said.

“Well hey Rhonda,” he said.  “I’m Dean.”

“Hey,” Rhonda said softly.

Dean grinned at her.  Then closed his door, started up his awesome car and drove off. 

Rhonda stared after him.

_Dean._

She wasn’t opening tomorrow, Patricia was scheduled to go in.  But that was going to change, Rhonda was calling Patricia as soon as she got back inside, telling her she could sleep in tomorrow.   And she was going to ask Shelley to pick up some cardboard coffee cup trays too, the diner should really be keeping some in stock.

But she never saw that shy smile on Dean’s face again. 

She got used to seeing him, he came into the diner every morning like clockwork to pick up coffees for himself and Mr. Morgan.  The second day he came by, Rhonda put the coffees into a cardboard tray for him and slid it across the counter to him without comment.  Dean smiled, raised his eyebrows.  _“Thanks_ babe.”

Rhonda wanted to say something back, to tease him a bit maybe, about being Mr. Morgan’s coffee delivery boy.  Or say something smartass, to get back at him for calling her _babe._   But the words wouldn’t come.  “You’re welcome,” she stammered.  Dean grinned at her, picked up his coffee tray and left.

And it never got any better.  Around Dean she was always tongue tied, off balance.  And it was so _frustrating,_ because she was _never_ like that around guys.  They were like that around her.  But not _Dean,_ apparently.

He was smooth, charming, flirtatious, but in a _practiced_ way, almost like he was doing it to be polite, like it was expected of him, to be appreciative like that, of a pretty girl.  But it came off as automatic, not sincere.  And Rhonda, every time she saw him (like, three or four mornings a week now – she’d taken over Patricia’s morning shifts and Patricia had figured out why and teased her about it), was _painfully_ sincere.

She couldn’t help it.  And that was painful.

She’d talked with Dean, a little bit.  Found out a few things about him after she’d asked some direct questions…that he’d recently moved to the area, staying out in the country somewhere.  That the new job seemed to be going well.  That Dean was, in fact her age, almost nineteen, out of highschool last year but he hadn’t graduated like she had.   He’d had to drop out, he said, to work and help support his little brother, who he was looking after right now while their dad was out of town.  The brother was attending the same highschool Rhonda had gone to, and he was in grade ten.

“He anything like you?” Rhonda asked.  (I mean, god, was there _another_ boy out there who looked like Dean?  The heart faltered).

“Nah,” Dean said.  “He’s wicked smart, nothin like me.  A genius, that kid.”

They were standing in the diner, one on each side of the counter, watching the coffee pot fill up.  (Rhonda had started waiting until she saw Dean at the door and then putting the coffee on…it gave her a few minutes with him before he rushed off to his job).

“Seriously?” Rhonda asked.  “A real genius?”  That was interesting.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Pretty much.  Clocks an IQ of 180 ‘n’ he’s read every book on the planet, c’n quote stuff back to you line by line.  Has a vocabulary like Webster’s Dictionary.  And he’s good in _everythin_ …math, science…don’t think he’s ever had a grade under like, ninety-nine.  He could set his _teachers_ straight ‘n’ he does _,_ sometimes.  He c’n argue anyone into the ground.  Try to prove a point with him, he buries you in about two sentences.”

The kid sounded obnoxious.

Dean sounded really proud of him though.  And Rhonda noticed a new look on Dean’s face when he was describing his brother, a proud, fond, _tender_ look.

“What’s his name?” Rhonda asked.

Dean looked at her.  “Sam,” he replied, after a moment.

“Why’nt you bring Sam in sometime,” Rhonda said.  “I’d like to meet him.”

Dean shrugged.  That tender expression was gone, like it had never been there.  “Maybe,” he said dismissively.

“You could bring him here in the mornings,” Rhonda said.  “He must drive in with you right?  You could drop him off ‘n’ he could have breakfast here before school.”

“Nah,” Dean said.  “He’s not too active in the mornins.  I basically wake him up, shovel some cereal into him, dump him into the backseat of our car ‘n’ he sleeps there until it’s time for school.  And I’ve been brown baggin meals for him.  We can’t afford to eat in a restaurant right now.”

“You…pack his meals for him?” Rhonda asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “’N’ he’s been eatin like a horse lately.”  He sounded proud again, like his brother’s appetite was an achievement of some kind.

“He can’t do that for _himself?”_ Rhonda asked.  I mean, the kid was like, what…fifteen?  Rhonda had been pretty much self sufficient, meal-wise, since she’d been old enough to do without a babysitter, with her mom working shifts at the hospital and not home on a regular schedule.  Dean was doting on his brother more than a _mom._

Dean shrugged.  “I guess.  I’m used to it, though.”

“Oh,” Rhonda said.  She looked at him.  “Where’s Sam now?”

“In the car, snoozin,” Dean said.

“You didn’t want to bring him in with you?” Rhonda asked.

Dean shook his head.  “No,” he said definitely.  “He’s good where he is.  I like him to get as much sleep as possible so if he c’n catch an extra hour in the car that’s good.  He’s growin, you know.”  And then he looked at his watch.  “Gotta hustle Rhonda, Phil doesn’t like me bein late.  Specially if he’s startin to jones for his coffee.”

Rhonda looked at him another moment then turned to pour out the coffee into two paper cups.  Placed them into a tray and pushed them over the counter.  “Dollar forty,” she said.

Dean paid her.  Turned to go.  “Wait,” Rhonda said.  She ran to the kitchen and scooped up a banana muffin from the tray that Cal had just pulled out of the oven.  Popped it into a paper bag.  “You c’n give this to your brother,” she said.  “It’s still warm.”  She held it out to him.

Dean didn’t take it.  “Thanks,” he said, “But-“

“It’s on the house,” Rhonda said.   “We get a meal allowance, one of the perks of working here.  That’s my muffin but I’m not eating it.  On a diet.”  (She wasn’t on a diet).

Dean took the paper bag from her.  “Okay then.  Thanks!  He’ll really like that.”  He was smiling with pleasure.  Rhonda watched this, feeling the warmth of that smile sink into her middle like she’d just swallowed that muffin whole.  And then Dean looked at her.  Winked.  “Don’t think _you_ need to worry about dietin though.”

Rhonda was all set to say something back.  Something equal to that last comment, something to show Dean that he wasn’t the only flirt in town.  But that smile of his.  He’d looked so _happy,_ smiling ear to ear at the prospect of a warm muffin for his brother.  That smile had defeated her.  _“Shut_ up,” she said, her voice all breathless.  And then smiling back at him.  Like an idiot.

He left.

Rhonda watched him go, those strong jeans-clad legs, slightly bowed (so damn _cute)_ , and that tight butt.

Ugh.  She had it bad.

This was so bad.

And it never got any better, it got worse in fact, over the weeks Dean came into the diner to pick up coffees for himself and his new boss, his face healing into unmarred perfection.  Rhonda had got into the habit of putting muffins out for his little brother (see, feeding the kid even _before_ she’d met him), and Dean took them from her appreciatively.  But Dean never introduced Sam and he never mentioned him anymore.  In fact, Rhonda noticed that any questions about Sam were a surefire way to make Dean look at his watch, say he was in a rush and hightail it out of there.  So she stopped.  And conversations about _Dean_ never developed either, Dean deflecting any personal interest in himself so smoothly that you almost didn’t notice.  That he’d just slammed a door in your face.  Two months after Rhonda had met him she really didn’t know anything more about him than the basics he’d shared with her at the beginning.  And _he_ didn’t know anything personal about _her_ (and she _wanted_ him to know about her…that she was taking a year off to work and save up for college in New York City – Columbia U holding a spot for her…that she had a track scholarship…that she wasn’t just a small town waitress…)

_(…that she was Rhonda, daughter of Jeannie, and Everett who’d died when Rhonda was six, shot in the line of duty and Jeannie moving back to the small town where she’d grown up, to raise her dark child alongside her white cousins, in a town ninety percent white, Rhonda not seeing another mixed race kid until she started going to highschool track meets and spotted another girl like her, their eyes meeting in silent recognition and Jeannie saying it doesn’t make a difference Rhonda, you’re loved you’re one of us and Rhonda not arguing with her/her mom, her tired eyes)_

…but he never asked her any questions about herself, never gave her the opportunity bring anything like that up.  And she wasn’t about to start babbling on uninvited, I mean, she had _some_ pride. 

So Dean would come in, collect his coffees (and Sam’s muffin), smile winningly, twinkle his eyes at her, throw her some stock flirtatious line and go.

Ugh.  And she could never seem to play it cool with him either, like pretend she didn’t care, like her heart _didn’t_ leap into her throat every time he walked through the door.

Because she remembered how he _could_ look.  Like that first time, so upset, and then shocked she’d helped him out.  And then smiling at her shyly, so heartbreaking.  And then later, that tender look in his eyes when he’d talked about his brother. 

There was something there.  Something more there than a pretty face, a hot bod and practiced charm.  But that was all that Dean appeared to be showing to her now.  And somehow, she was reacting to it helplessly, even though she knew better.  And then watching him _handle_ her reaction to him, so skillfully, and recognizing what he was doing because it was the same thing _she’d_ do, managing these kinds of reactions from the opposite sex.

To her looks.

Because that’s all guys saw, at first at least, and for most of them, the only thing.

_That hot (black/mixed) chick.  Gettin some of that._

Managing that.

Rhonda understood what Dean was doing, alright.  She’d learned how to do the same thing.  Early.

But understanding didn’t make it better.  Just more embarrassing, to have this _crush_ on him.  The whole situation was starting to make her mad.  And it got worse after Dean started _working_ at the diner (which at first she’d considered a gift from heaven).

Because after Dean started working there he stopped even flirting with her.  His flow of smarmy  compliments stopped, like he’d turned off a tap.  Now he was just treating her with a friendly, casual respect.  Like a _colleague._ And you know, from anybody else that’d have been okay, but from _him_ it was like being slapped. 

Because Dean _knew_ she liked him, Rhonda could tell.  She’d seen that knowledge on his face.  And she _knew_ he appreciated her appearance, he hadn’t made any secret of that and she’d seen that on his face too.

But for whatever reason, he’d decided things wouldn’t go any further.  And he was managing the situation to that effect.  _Handling_ her.

And that was _infuriating,_ because Rhonda recognized exactly what he was doing.  She’d handled her own share of situations, she was familiar.

Ugh.  Arrgh.  She wanted to _kill_ him.

But luckily she could tease Sam instead.

She hadn’t had a great first impression of Sam, once she’d finally met him.  A tall, slender boy with a flop of brown hair covering half his face.  Dressed in worn looking army surplus clothes like Dean.  And barely noticeable beside his spectacular older brother, with Dean entering the diner like a bright light (the way he always did) and Sam slipping in behind him like a shadow.  Rhonda had taken one look at Sam and dismissed him, to be honest.  And then Sam speaking to her like a little snot (although there’d been a flash of charm there too, for a moment).  But then Dean _doting_ on him, gazing at his brother with this absorbed, intent expression that made the look on his face when he’d _talked_ about Sam seem pale in comparison. 

And Rhonda saw it now, in its pure form.  How Dean could look when he was really plugged into something.  Not just riding behind that face of his.  It was a devastating look, one that stayed with you.  And it was all focused on _Sam,_ who clearly took it for granted, accepting his big brother’s devoted attention like it was just part of his environment.  Like gravity.  Or oxygen. 

It made Rhonda want to smack the little brat.

But once Sam started hanging out at the diner, it was much more satisfying to _tease_ him.

I mean, it wasn’t really fair of her to do that, Rhonda recognized that.  It wasn’t like it was _Sam’s_ fault that he had this gorgeous older brother looking out for him, looking after him, Dean smiling absently as he watched Sam shovel down the food he’d _cooked_ for him, Sam packing it away into that skinny frame of his like there was a hole inside him somewhere that could absorb endless quantities of calories, American diner style.

But it was irresistible, teasing Sam.

It had started out kind of by accident. 

Sam ambling into the diner, backpack over his shoulder, face barely visible under that curtain of hair (how did he _see,_ through that?).  Nodding to her.  “Hey Rhonda.”  And strolling by her, heading towards the back of the room, towards Dean standing behind the grill.  And Dean, watching him intently, the steak ‘n’ eggs he’d been frying up forgotten.

And Rhonda realizing suddenly that this _always_ happened. 

Whenever Sam showed up Dean would freeze for a moment, still as a photograph.  Those green eyes on his brother, suddenly intent.  Watching him, checking him out.  For…what?  And Sam, continuing on with whatever he was doing, glancing back at Dean casually.  Or maybe not casually, that wasn’t the word.  _Comfortably,_ Sam looking back at his brother comfortably, his own gaze assured.   Reassuring. 

And then Dean greeting him, his own gaze back to casual, the moment over.  “Hey moron.  You’re late.  Where you been?” 

“Not so late,” Sam replied, folding himself into his booth, putting his knapsack down beside him.  Reaching into it, pulling out books and papers.  “Had stuff to do for Mr. Boland, told you this morning, remember?”

“Teacher’s pet,” Dean said.  Turning his attention back to the grill.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam replied.

And Rhonda walking over, a menu and glass of water in hand.  Pretending she hadn’t been staring.  Putting the glass of water down on the table.  “What c’n I get you, Sam?”

Sam, blinking up at her through hair.  “C’n I have the double bacon cheeseburger with fries?”  And blinking at her.  Smiling.

“Uh huh…so what you do _say?”_ Rhonda asked him.  But smiling back, in spite of herself. 

Sam.  What a little freeloader.

 _“Please?”_  Sam said.  And grinning up at her, all cheeky.  He _knew_ he was freeloading, the little brat.  Riding on his big brother’s coattails.

But Rhonda, grinning back at him.  Irresistibly.  I mean, okay, so the kid was a spoiled little brat, no secret there.  But those eyes.  Man.  They made her want to pet him.  In spite of herself.  She could see why Dean doted on him. 

“Sure,” she said.  And her yellow pad out, writing all this down (Cal kept track of what Sam ordered).  “Want gravy with those fries?”

“Yeah!”

Rhonda smiling.  And then glancing over at Dean.  Who was watching her consideringly.  His expression not so much like a friendly co-worker anymore.

Rhonda observed this.  And then she gave into her impulse.  With one eye on Dean, she reached out and petted Sam’s hair.

It was soft to the touch.  And luxuriously deep, like Rhonda had just stroked the pelt of some wild animal.  Like that time she’d been on a trip with her class to the Natural History Museum, running her hands over a wolfskin.  The fur, deep under her fingers, thick and satin soft.  Sam’s hair reminded her of that. 

Rhonda stroked him again, distracted.

Sam had hunched himself down under her hand.  “What’re you _doin?”_ he asked.  The cheeky sound had disappeared from his voice.

Rhonda caught herself.  “Just pettin you,” she said, after a moment.  “That’s what you get, for giving me those puppy eyes.” 

Sam stared up at her, eyes wide.  His mouth was open.  He looked like a little kid, gaping at her.  A little kid with limbs too long for him and oversize hands and feet.  Adorable.  Rhonda grinned at him.  “Aren’t you the little cutie,” she said.  And she noticed that her voice sounded like Dean’s now, when he talked about his brother.  Fond.

Sam blinked.  Stared at her.  He didn’t reply.

But Rhonda suddenly saw herself under his gaze.  Her supple, shapely self, her long legs in their tight jeans, that drew stares and sometimes whistles wherever she went.  Sam, staring at her, taking in the sight.

Rhonda blinked back.  Somehow Sam didn’t look so much like a kid anymore.

But just for a moment.  She must have been mistaken.  Nobody in the diner, _including_ Sam’s aggravatingly gorgeous older brother, treated Sam like anything other than what he was, a brainy little brat, Dean’s pet and now theirs, Sam more of a kid than Jackson even ( _Jackson_ at least with the status of his place on the basketball team and them winning the regionals last year).

She petted Sam’s head again, reassuring herself.  Just a nerdy kid, sitting there.

Sam scowled at her.

(That grouchy little face, so cute).

Rhonda smiled at him, silently daring Sam to say something (I mean, you’re eating here _free_ you little suck…I’ll pet you if I want).  And then she cocked an eye towards pretty boy.  To check out how _he_ was taking this.

Dean was scowling at her too.

Rhonda grinned.  So, okay.  Both brothers, annoyed with her.  But not saying anything (because really, what _could_ they say?)  This was kind of fun.  Especially tweaking Dean.

Rhonda put a hand casually on Sam’s slender arm.  Patted him again (and felt taut muscle under soft flannel, oh).  She blinked.  But then said to Sam, making a point of sounding nice (and I mean, she _was_ being nice, taking care of Dean’s little brother and no tips for it, either), “Okay kiddo.  Bacon burger ‘n’ fries, comin right up,” and turned away from him towards his brother, to hand Dean Sam’s order slip. 

Dean took it from her silently.  But then he looked at her as he reached for it.  And not casually, giving Rhonda this brooding, dark green stare she’d never seen from him before.  And then, as he took the slip from her, he _touched_ her fingers (and he’d _never_ touched her, even when he’d been flirting with her.  With Dean it had been all words and eyes).

This touch had to have been on purpose.

But it wasn’t friendly.  Dean’s fingers scraped over hers hard, almost like a pinch.  And Rhonda got the message, loud and clear.

_(You’ve pissed me off)_

Oh.  Okay.  Guess big brother didn’t like little brother getting her attention.  Well you know what?  Fine.  Dean had pissed Rhonda off too.  About time he started taking her seriously.

Rhonda smiled at him.  “Feed our little cutie up _good,_ pretty boy,” she said to Dean.  In a smartass tone and one that was actually characteristic of her, but that she’d never been able to pull off with _Dean_ before.  Dean’s eyes widened.

Rhonda turned away deliberately, met Sam’s eyes briefly, smiled at him _too_ and walked off, conscious of two sets of male eyes, silently fixed on her back.  She put a little extra spring into her step.

So Dean thought he could _handle_ her?  Treat her _casually,_ like a _co-worker?_  

Hah.

He’d never be casual about her again.  Because she’d figured out what got under his skin.

Paying attention to Sam. 

And that’s how it started.  Teasing Sam.

Which Rhonda did, amusing herself shamelessly.  Calling Sam her cutie, petting him, fussing over him, teasing him about his long hair, playing with it…chuckling when he’d get all glowery and grouchy (Sam annoyed at being treated like a pet, she understood that, but he was just _so cute_ when he glared at her like a grumbly little puppy). 

(And Dean watching this, Dean saying things occasionally, Rhonda always enjoyably conscious of Dean’s attention at these moments).

And then…maybe because of the way Sam’s eyes would flash on her sometimes…and because of Dean’s eyes on her, not so casual now…she started to _flirt_ with Sam.

Not in a _serious_ way of course, but more like you’d act around your kid brother’s nerdy friends.  You know, the ones who didn’t have a hope in hell of getting you and _they_ knew it too, so whatever you did, it wasn’t a big deal, it was all in fun.

And it _was_ fun, too.  Flirting with Dean’s little brother in this outrageous, campy way (like she _never_ did with _any_ guy _)_ , kind of showing herself off, her butt, her boobs, swinging her hips around, batting her eyelashes… 

It was fun, okay?  Rhonda had always liked her body.  It was strong and well proportioned and it had carried her far (literally, mile after mile, and then with this track scholarship, hopefully into a different life from this one).  But she’d never really enjoyed the attention her body drew from others (from girls, who could get so jealous and catty, and then guys, so often uncomfortable with her looks even while attracted to her, their attention more something to be managed than enjoyed).  And she’d been raised not to seem full of herself either  _(“Rhonda, don’t be vain,” her mom would say, if she saw Rhonda gazing at herself in the mirror.  “People don’t like girls who are stuck up.”)._

So Rhonda liked her body, but she’d never felt free to enjoy it.  You know, just be natural.  It was almost like she had to appreciate herself, _in secret._

But somehow, around Sam, she was free to enjoy herself.  Flirt, show off, put herself on display.  It was fun as hell and harmless too.  Because this was _Sam,_ her little pup, and she knew, and Sam did too, that the show wasn’t really for him.

It was for Dean.  Because she’d _never_ be able to flirt with Dean directly like that, not in a million years.  Dean made her feel way too self conscious (and also, he’d clearly seen it all before, girls coming on to him, flirting with him, that wasn’t anything special to him, and Rhonda wasn’t about to join the herd).

But Sam.  Sometimes Rhonda would be leaning over Sam, brushing his (wonderful) hair out of his eyes, cooing to him _(“How’s our cutie today?”)_ and Sam would look at her.  And they’d regard each other for a moment, meeting each other’s grey-green-yellowy-brown eyes (yeah, Rhonda had noticed they shared the same freaky eye colour), and she’d see the understanding there.  Sam _knew_ all this attention she was paying to him was because of Dean.  And Rhonda would look back at him, knowing he knew.  And they’d stare at each other, silently.  But then Rhonda would arch her back slightly (which did wonderful things for her breasts) and Sam’s eyes would lock onto them like magnets.  And Rhonda smiling at this, making sure to breathe in deep.  And then Sam’s eyes moving (slowly) from her breasts to her face, his own eyes wide now, and he’d take in her expression. 

Rhonda blinking at him (yeah, she could do puppy eyes, too), all sparkly and charming. 

_(Like my girls, Sam?)_

And Sam would stare at her, his own expression clear now, of everything except for admiration and he’d blink _back_ at her.

_(Uh huh)_

And Rhonda would grin because this was _fun,_ okay?  It was fun to show off her hot bod, why not?  For little cutie here, but always with that golden big brother in the background.  And then Sam looking at her and slowly grinning back, a bit sarcastically.  Because yeah, he got it.  He enjoyed the show sure, but he got it.  And then Rhonda, twinkling at him.  And then both of them, like clockwork, glancing over at Dean to see how he was taking it.

And Dean, glaring at them, clearly not having any fun.

But that was okay.  Rhonda would finish taking Sam’s order then saunter over to hand it to Dean, her expression nothing but professional now but her hips swaying.  And Dean, watching her walk, his own expression hard to define.  Not casual though.  And then Rhonda handing him the order slip _,_ saying _“Here you go, pretty,”_ and grinning, with her own grin a bit sarcastic, able to be sassy with Dean now because she was finally in control of the situation, she was confident.

Getting Dean all bothered.   Rhonda found that pretty satisfying, after all those weeks he’d bothered _her._   Oh sure, _sometimes_ he played it cool, especially if Sam got irritated at all the petting, Dean smirking at his brother while Sam glowered.  Dean didn’t seem to mind Sam being treated like a puppy so much.   But if Rhonda _flirted_ with his brother, getting Sam’s eyes to go all wide…Dean didn’t even attempt to play cool about _that,_ he just looked unhappy. 

But that was okay.  Unhappy looks from Dean meant Rhonda was on his radar.  Included now, in the magic circle of Dean’s attention.

So satisfying, to be able to tweak Dean like this.  Because Dean clearly didn’t like Sam getting the attention that  _he_ was used to getting.  Rhonda flirting with Sam and _not_ him?  Incredible.   And unlike his younger brother, he hadn’t figured it out.   He thought Rhonda was paying all this attention to Sam because she _liked_ Sam.   

And that made her stand out from the crowds of girls (like the ones who’d started flocking to the diner after school, sitting as near to Dean as possible and giggling).  It made Dean look at Rhonda differently.

Well, Rhonda wasn’t about to set him straight.  Teasing Sam, flirting with him…it was just too damn much fun.

And also…thing was…she _had_ started to like Sam.

Not like _that_ of course, I mean Sam was just a kid.

But he was a likeable kid.  Not just a little brat.  Sam was genuinely…likeable.  With his own brand of charm.

Rhonda had been watching him, showing up at the diner, backpack over his shoulder, greeting everyone as he made his way past them to Dean, dutifully reporting in, answering Dean’s questions about his day (doing his reassurance thing).  Settling himself down then eating like there was no tomorrow (and the way he packed down food…it _was_ actually cute, Rhonda could see why Dean watched him so fondly).  Smiling sweetly at the waitresses as they put plates and cups and bowls (and more plates and cups and bowls) in front of him.  And eventually becoming a hero to Cal and Shelley by tutoring Jackson (who was a great kid but not the sharpest pencil in the box), the two of them sitting in Sam’s booth, heads bent over their homework, Jackson’s questions and Sam’s patient voice, answering.  And then, as the evening drew on, Sam reading some book while sucking away on an extra large milkshake made and brought over to him by (Rhonda, Patricia, Shelley), and towards the end of Dean’s shift, napping, curled up on his side on the padded bench, using his jacket for a blanket, waiting for Dean to finish up and drive them both home, Sam making himself so at home in their little community, inhabiting the diner with the self possessed assurance of a cat, purring (mostly) under the doting attention of everyone who worked there (and eventually joining them in that too, the diner's proud new dishwasher, said job arranged for him between Shelley, Jackson and big brother Dean). 

(Sam, tying an apron around himself for the first time under Shelley's approving eyes.  And _Dean's_ eyes, Dean gazing at his brother with this sappy, _fond_ look in them, it was too much, Rhonda had to look away).

So anyway...Rhonda had started to…genuinely appreciate him.  She’d feel this little burst of happiness whenever Sam ambled in, greeting them all cheerfully, so patient with Dean (who’d fuss over Sam like a mom/so weird-cute to see this and Dean didn’t even know he was doing it), so patient with Jackson, who was blooming magically under Sam’s tutelage, Jackson so used to seeing himself (like they all had) as kind of slow.

And so patient with her too.  Rhonda had figured it out.  Sam put up with all her teasing and flirting because he…understood.

Those steady looks he’d give her.  Or his sarcastic little grin, Sam recovering himself after she’d swayed over to his table, brushed her butt against his arm, making him go all bug-eyed.  But then grinning at her.  And then glancing over at his brother, following the path of Rhonda’s gaze. 

Sam understood alright.  But he never said anything.

Because he understood her helpless crush on Dean.  And he wasn’t about to embarrass her by saying anything about it.  Instead, he let her harass him with (mostly) good grace, not too grouchy about it now and most of the time playing along.  Letting Rhonda have her fun.  But with an occasional eloquent glance, meeting Rhonda’s eyes and letting her know he understood.  The game.  Played for the benefit of Dean.

But Sam enjoyed it too.  His eyes told her that.  And Rhonda was enjoying this experience of herself, under Sam’s eyes.  He’d walk into the diner and she’d feel her body perk up, getting ready to put on its struttin shoes.  Giving the kid an education in the female form.  It was…enjoyable, okay?

And she kind of wondered whether Sam had picked up on this too.  That she enjoyed herself around him in a way she never had before.  Enjoying her own self.

_(And Sam’s eyes, on her, steady)_

But not saying anything.  His eyes saying everything that needed to be said.

Rhonda was starting to appreciate Sam, truly.  Dean was right about his little brother.  Sam was wicked smart.  And nothing like him.  Unlike _Dean,_ Sam had heart.

Rhonda wished she could get over Dean.  Crushes were annoying.  And they weren’t _her._   _She_ was the one in control.

_(But Dean’s green eyes on her too, that first time.  So distressed.  And then so pleased and shy)._

That had hooked her.

But the thing was, the game with Sam had started to be fun all on its own.  Dean not a necessary ingredient anymore.

Rhonda had realized this one day, when she was leaning over Sam as he sat at his table, letting her hair fall over her shoulder just so, brushing against _Sam’s_ shoulder, her boobs jiggling gently in front of his nose, her whole posture like a spoof of the buxom barmaid at a medieval inn, serving up drinks (and other things, later).  A teenage boy’s wet dream.  And Rhonda, camping it up, having fun with it, with Sam gazing up at her appreciatively, not doing anything _back_ in particular _,_ but his eyes conveying a silent message.

_(You rock)_

And Rhonda, gazing back at him, grinning.

_(I know)_

And she realized.  She was enjoying herself, just doing this.  Not for any other reason.  She felt comfortable with this sassy, flirty, over-the-top girly version of herself that seemed to surface now, whenever Sam showed up.  She liked that girl.  And she felt safe, doing this with Sam (and appreciated, too).  It was all fun.

And it had nothing to do with Dean, who did not make her feel safe.  And who wasn’t much fun either, to be honest.

Dean.

Rhonda came back to herself.  Standing in the cold evening air, on a quick break from her waitress job (the best employment this town could offer).  She shivered.  Her cigarette was down to the filter, it was time to go back inside. 

But she wasn’t ready to, quite yet.  Because going inside meant she had to face Dean.  And after the words they’d just exchanged, which had nearly made her cry.

Dean had felt dangerous from the beginning, from the moment she’d met him.  At first just plain dangerous, and then dangerous to her peace of mind.  And he’d made _her_ feel dangerous too, her hackles rising involuntarily around him.  Dean, the way he moved through the world, his beauty like a hazard sign.        

_(Proceed At Own Risk)_

Okay, so Rhonda understood why he’d put this kind of message out, because she’d do it too, and had, plenty of times.

Because beauty attracts and sometimes you just need your space.

_(You can look but you can’t touch)_

But understanding this about Dean didn’t make her feel particularly friendly towards him.  Because she _also_ understood that being distant like that, the way Dean was, so effortlessly…it could work the opposite way on someone.  Being distant…it could draw someone _in,_ like nobody’s business.  Even if you didn’t mean it to (and she wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Dean didn’t). 

And regardless, one way or the other, she didn’t particularly appreciate the way Dean seemed to be having that effect on _her._   Being so damn unattainably gorgeous.  And drawing her in with that, like a fish.  And then _handling_ her attraction to him, because it was clear that he didn’t want things going any further.

No, she didn’t appreciate that.  Uh uh.  Let’s say she was _pissed as hell._   Her goddamn, stupid crush.  On Dean.  God.  She wished she’d never laid eyes on him.  Dean made her feel like shit.

Thank god for Sam.

So okay, she was flirting with Sam.  So what?  If what she was doing with his little brother didn’t make Dean feel particularly friendly towards _her_ either _,_ that was okay.  Given the situation, unfriendly was goddamn _fine._  

Because Rhonda understood all about unfriendly too.  Unfriendly terrain has its own attraction, as a runner, she knew that.  Because athletes need challenge, they look for it, they’re made by it.  It keeps them sharp. 

Sometimes the hazard sign is what you’re looking for.   

And for competitive athletes like her… _opposition_ was the thing that made you really strut your stuff, and the tougher the challenge the better. 

A true athlete doesn’t wimp out under unfriendly.  They just get dangerous.

And that’s how she felt around Dean.  Dangerous.

Not like she wanted to do him any _damage_ of course (even though he was starting to make her super mad) _._   But like she wanted to win.  Beat him, somehow.  Because that’s what _really_ got athletes going.  They wanted to win.

Dean.  Dean was an athlete.  His body revealed that.  And his attitude.  Rhonda had seen that about him too, right from the beginning.  And maybe unfriendly was just what _he_ needed, too.

Rhonda sighed.  What was wrong with her?  Dean Dean Dean.  His _presence_ in her mind, like a goddamn migraine headache.  Guys _never_ got to her this way.  It must be because she was bored, all her friends gone off, moved away to start their _real_ lives, and her, the brightest of them all, still here, still working at the diner like she had since she was fourteen.  Nothing to put her mind to (except Dean, walking through that door).

And still with months to go before she was finally out of here.  Months of working with Dean and if their last conversation was anything to go by, they wouldn’t be pleasant months at all. 

Maybe she’d ask Shelley to switch her shifts, so she wouldn’t see Dean so much anymore.  Things were getting way too fucking complicated.

(Wait a minute.  Let Dean drive her away?  She’d been working here before him).

_(And then never seeing Sam again, either)_

No.  Fuck that.  Rhonda was not a wimp and Dean _wasn’t_ going to win.  She wasn’t going to let this situation get to her any more than it already had.  She was just going to handle it, like she’d handled situations in the past.  Like she was _good_ at, okay?  The best out there (until _Dean_ had showed up, that is). 

Dean again. 

Enough already. 

Rhonda took a final drag on her cigarette (her last one for the next twenty four hours).  She’d quit altogether, she promised herself, as soon as the weather got warm.  And her training kicked back into high gear.

Dean must train.  Somewhere.  Rhonda wondered where.  Maybe she’d ask Sam.

Rhonda rolled her eyes.  Fuck.  Stop it.  She dropped her cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with her foot.  Then opened the back door of the diner and went inside.  To get through the rest of her shift with Moron Brothers, One and Two.

And stopped short at the sight of Sam, spraying Jackson with the hose from the dish sink, the two boys hooting with laughter.

Rhonda looked at Sam.  Took a breath.

“Sam!” she snapped.  “What’re you _doing!”_

Sam turned to her, laughing.  “Jackson was _instructin_ me.  He didn’t think I was usin the spray hose right.”

“Uh huh _,”_ Rhonda replied.  “So?  You're here to _work,_ Sam.  Jackson, you too.  Shelley didn't ask you to come here to just goof around.”

“Sorry Rhonda,” Jackson said.  “Mom’s not here, anyway.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rhonda said.  “So who does _that_ leave in charge?  _Me,_ that’s who.  And I seem to remember asking you to stay up front while I took my break.”

“Sorry Rhonda,” Jackson said again.  “I asked Dean to keep an eye on things and call out if he needed.  I just popped back to see how Sam was doin.  I’ve only been back here for like a couple of seconds.”

“Good thing you checked on me Jackson,” Sam said.  “I was havin trouble.  Dishes are hard.”

“ _Shud_ dup, doof,” Jackson said.  He was grinning again.  Sam raised the hose threateningly.

“Sam!” Rhonda snapped.  “That’s enough!  You got water all over the place already!”

Sam lowered the hose.  “Sorry Rhonda.  I’ll mop it up.”

“You do that,” Rhonda said to him.  Said to Jackson, “Either work or leave.”   Jackson looked abashed.  Her point made, Rhonda started to walk past them.  And slipped on the wet floor.  Yelped, _“Shit!”_

Sam grabbed her around the waist.  “Whoa there!”  He pulled her against his side.

Rhonda gave another yelp, this time of surprise.  “What’re you doing!”  She braced a hand against Sam’s chest to prevent the rest of her from falling against him.

Sam was grinning down at her.  “What does it look like?  _Rescuin_ you.”

Rhonda stared up at him.  Sam was taller than her, she noticed suddenly, by a quite a bit.  Normally whenever she was talking with him, he was sitting down.

“Well I’m rescued,” she said.  “You can let go now, hero.”

Sam didn’t let go.  He squeezed her.

“Hey!”  Rhonda said.  That hard arm, pressing her suddenly against a hard, lean body.  Holy shit. 

Sam was grinning.  “Wow,” he said.  “You feel as good as you look.”

Rhonda stared up at him.  Then she poked Sam in the ribs.  Hard.  “Hey!”  _Sam_ was yelping now.  He let her go.  Rhonda stepped back quickly.  And stared at him again.  Considering what to say next.

Because things had gotten complicated with Sam too.

Something had changed with him.  At first she hadn’t taken it seriously.  But now it seemed that maybe she should.

What she’d noticed recently was…that Sam was touching her. 

Or let’s say, touching her _back._

It had started a few days ago.

Sam sliding into his booth like always, Rhonda sauntering up to him (and as always, conscious of Dean’s silent, green eyed presence), her yellow order pad in hand.

“What c’n I get you today cutie pie?”  And then she noticed.  “You tied your hair back!”

Sam grinned at her.  And Rhonda stared down at his face, the startling architecture of high smooth forehead, slanted brows and strong, graceful lines of cheekbones and jaw, all framed with a smooth, shining fall of hair, one lock (the one that normally fell over Sam’s face) held back by a dark brown hair elastic.   _Her_ brown hair elastic, that she’d just given him yesterday.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And grinning.  “I liked what you did.  Thought I’d try it.”

“It looks great,” Rhonda said, staring at all that shiny brown hair, brushed smooth for once.  And she reached out unthinkingly, to stroke it.

Sam caught her hand.  “Me first,” he said.

“What?”  Rhonda was startled.  Sam’s hand was _large,_ she realized, at least twice the size of hers, those long fingers wrapped around hers in a strong grip.  “Sam,” she said, “what-“  She began to pull her hand away.  Sam’s fingers tightened.

“You’re always touchin my hair,” he said.  “Now it’s my turn.”

“Sam!”  Rhonda was laughing.  She yanked uselessly at her hand.  “Let go!”

“In a minute,” Sam said.  Then said, “Tilt your head.”

Rhonda looked at him, not laughing now.  She stared down at Sam, warningly.

_(Settle down, kid)._

Sam didn’t appear to pick up on this.  “Tilt your head Rhonda,” he repeated.  “Then I’ll let go.”

Rhonda looked down at Sam’s upturned face, at his large, long lashed eyes with their slight slant, now flashing gold under the diner’s bright overhead lights.  She’d been about to tell Sam off.  To put him in his place. 

But those spectacular eyes, no longer hidden behind that curtain of hair.  Sam would be a heartbreaker, once he grew up.  

Rhonda tilted her head thoughtlessly, letting her own long hair fall forward. 

Sam let go of her hand.  But then his other hand, coming up to stroke her curls.  Running his fingers through them, gently. 

“Wow,” Sam said. 

“…What?” Rhonda asked. 

Sam’s long fingers, in her hair.  And she felt…strange, suddenly,  Fragile.  Like Sam was handling glass, not hair.  “Never felt hair like _that_ before?” she said him.  And heard her voice, the harsh tone in it. 

“No,” Sam replied quietly.  And his hand, stroking.  “It feels awesome,” he said.

Rhonda stood still.  Sam’s hands, his quiet voice, caressing.

_(Awesome)_

But then she remembered herself (and what the hell was she _doing_ , exactly?) and stepped back, out of Sam’s reach.  He looked up at her.  He was smiling slightly, she noticed.  Then he said, “Okay, so you c’n pat _my_ head now.”  And he tilted his head forward, closing his eyes.

After a moment, Rhonda laughed.  _Sam,_ god.  She swatted him on the head.  “There you go, you little brat.”

“Ow!”  Sam was rubbing his head, scowling at her.

Rhonda, laughing.  She felt fine again.  Back to herself.  She took a lock of her own hair, leaned forward and tickled Sam’s nose with it.  “Think _you_ c’n play around with _me,_ huh kiddo?”

Sam looked at her.  He was smiling.  “Uh huh,” he said.  And then he touched her waist, lightly but with his whole hand, his palm flat against her waist.  And _squeezed_ her, his long fingers curving around, almost like they were _feeling_ how narrow her waist was.  And letting her know he appreciated it.

Rhonda stared at him, a little shocked.  I mean, this was bold.  Sam had never tried anything like _that_ before.  And neither had any _other_ fifteen year old boy, in her experience.  What was going on?  She put her hand on Sam’s hand and removed it from her waist.  “Settle down there sport,” she said.   “And you’d better order.  It’s not like you’re my only table, here.”

“Okay,” Sam said calmly.  Gazing at her, steadily.  He ordered.   Rhonda wrote his order down and turned to hand the slip to Dean, who she’d _completely_ forgotten about, somehow.

Met Dean’s eyes.

And saw the expression in them.  Raw, Dean gazing at Rhonda with that same look of utter, raw distress she’d seen before, so inexplicably. 

The look that had hooked her.

Rhonda was staring at Dean now, her mouth open.

Then she handed him Sam’s order slip.  Wordlessly.  Dean took it from her equally wordlessly.  Rhonda turned away.  And met Sam’s eyes again.  He was watching her, his own eyes grave.

At that moment, he looked a lot older than fifteen.

Rhonda, staring at this.  Then turning and walking away, silently, conscious of the two silent brothers, behind her.

And when Rhonda put Sam’s plate down in front of him a few minutes later (a heaping plate, piled high like Dean always made for Sam, a double order of fries at least, but Rhonda never said anything about this kind of thing to Cal), Sam touched her hand.

Just briefly.  But it was definitely a caress, Sam’s thumb running lightly over the back of her hand.

“Thanks Rhonda,” he said.  And he looked up at her, with his new, bare face and _smiled._

Confidently.  Showing her that he was waiting for her to respond to him.

And Rhonda was without words.  Even though she was used to teasing and playing around with Sam by now. 

Shocked.  Because, wow.

That was pretty fucking direct.

And the way Sam was looking at her, it was like he was this whole new person, suddenly.  Sam, her little puppy.  Replaced with…what?

Rhonda stared at him, silently.

But then she recovered herself. 

Okay, so Sam was showing her he had some teeth.  Getting back at her for all her flirting and teasing, showing her he could dish it out too.  Growing up a little bit.  That was fine.  She could deal with that.

“Sure, puppy,” Rhonda said kindly.  “Anytime.”  And she patted him on the head.  Deliberately, like Sam really _was_ a puppy.  She even scratched him behind the ears.  And then she walked away, her hips swaying.  Let Sam have his view.  He thought he could get fresh with her? 

Right.  She could handle him.

And she did.  Even though.

Sam continued to touch her.  Not obnoxiously.  Not even as boldly as she’d been touching him.  But he was putting his hands on her.  And not being shy about it either.  Touching her comfortably, confidently.  Putting his hands on her like it was his right.  And Rhonda was caught.  I mean, it wasn’t like she could just get huffy and tell him to cut it out, after _she’d_ been doing the same thing to _him_ for weeks.

And Sam had figured this out.  His eyes on her, twinkling.

_(I mean, fair’s fair, right?)_

So Sam, patting her waist as he’d walk by her.  Or reaching out, the back of his hand briefly brushing her hair.  Thanking her when she put stuff down on his table, a light touch of his hand on hers.  Leaving at the end of the night with Dean, saying good night as Rhonda was closing up shop, putting his hand on the small of her back.  Petting her, just like she’d pet him.

These comfortable, affectionate touches.  Sam touching Rhonda like he was her boyfriend…no, not even like that.  Like he was her _husband,_ like they’d been married for years, Sam touching her with a calm, proprietary, confident affection.

Rhonda was kind of enjoying it, actually.  Thing was, around Sam she _did_ feel comfortable. 

But it wasn’t like she was going to let him take this new attitude of his any further.  And so she’d decided that the best thing to do was…not to react.  She’d treat Sam exactly as she had before.  Her little puppy.  And she wouldn’t take him seriously, just rolling her eyes when he’d run a hand lightly down her back _(“Down, boy!”_ and Sam grinning at her _)._ Show Sam she still considered him Dean’s nerdy little, freeloading brother, a tad precocious maybe, who it was fun to tease and flirt with because it didn’t mean anything, it was just playing around _._   And that would be it.  Easy-peasy.

But it wasn’t.

It was challenging actually, to handle Sam like this.  And Rhonda was getting the idea that Sam _wasn’t_ playing around.  Not anymore.  He’d decided to move both of them on from there.

But whatever.  She was just going to pretend she hadn’t noticed.  And eventually Sam would get the message and back off.  After all, he was still just a kid, even if he didn’t act like one sometimes.  And Rhonda could deal with whatever he threw at her until then.

But there was something up with Dean.

And that was beyond Rhonda’s ability to handle. 

Dean had stopped looking at her.

At all.  Not even casually, like before, his eyes lighting on her then sliding off to the side.

Now he looked _through_ her, like Rhonda wasn’t even there.  And if he had to talk to her (like, _really had to_ because they _worked_ together), he _still_ wouldn’t look at her, speaking over her shoulder in this low monotone voice, politely, but completely impersonally.  Like she was nothing.

She’d thought Dean was kind of distant with her before, but _now?_   Now it was like they were on two different planets.

I mean, seriously?

Rhonda didn’t know what to make of it.  I mean, she’d known Dean didn’t like her paying attention to Sam, but _this?_ What the fuck?

And tonight had been the worst. 

It had been busy, for a weeknight.  And Shelley hadn’t been feeling well and asked Rhonda to cover for both of them, sending her Jackson as an extra pair of hands, with Sam handling dishes and Patricia on call if things got crazy.  But Rhonda was fine, she liked being left in charge. 

She’d quickly organized Sam and Jackson, calling them both to the back.  Asked them to get started on the stack of unwashed plates and then Jackson to come out to the front to help her.  The two boys were in high spirits, kidding with each other, not really paying attention. 

“Guys!” she said.  “Listen up, I’ve only got a second.”

Sam turned, smiling at her.  “Sorry Rhonda.”  And then he put a hand casually on her waist.  Rhonda removed it, firmly.  “Sam, _focus._   I’m not kidding around here.”

Sam grinned at her.  And Rhonda grinned back, in spite of herself.  Sam looked so _cute_ in his tshirt, jeans and white apron, with his hair tied back out of his eyes with a cotton bandanna, pirate style.  So pleased with himself to have a job here, not a freeloader anymore.  Rhonda patted his aproned stomach without thinking.  “Time to work, ace.”  Sam’s eyes brightened.  He reached out and patted her hip.  And then his eyes, twinkling at her.

_(Fair’s fair)._

“Sam!  I mean it, _behave,”_   Rhonda said, trying to come back from this, making her voice stern.

His eyes, twinkling.  “Yes Rhonda,” he said.

Rhonda looked at him.  Somehow when Sam said that to her…it didn’t sound like he was planning to behave.

“You’re a bad kid,” she said.  But she was smiling at him, wryly.  “Aren’t you?  You _act_ like such a sweet little suck but in reality, you’re just bad to the bone.”

Sam, twinkling at her.  “You see right through me,” he said.  And then he reached out and… _tweaked her cheek._

Rhonda jumped back.  “Sam!” she snapped at him.  I mean, really.  Time to put this kid in his place.

“Yes Rhonda?” Sam was laughing. 

“None of that,” she said, “Do that again, you’re getting smacked.”

Sam looked interested.  And then he…reached out and touched her cheek _again._   But this time he trailed his fingers lightly over it, letting them run down onto the side of her neck.

Tingling.  Oh.  Where had Sam learned to do _that?_   Rhonda stared at him, shocked.

Sam dropped his hand.  “Okay,” he said.  “Smack me.”

Rhonda, staring at him.  She was tempted to.  But she got the idea that if she did that Sam would grab her.  And maybe take the opportunity to step things up a notch.  But would she really mind, at this point?  Sam watching her, his eyes bright with interest.  She was aware of herself watching him back, her own eyes mirroring the exact same expression.

This was such a bad idea.  But-

“Um…” Jackson said.  Both Rhonda and Sam turned to look at him.  Rhonda had forgotten he was in the room. 

Jackson was looking at her strangely.  “You should probably check the front,” he said.  “Sam 'n' I c'n take it from here.”  

Oh yeah, they’d been talking about _dishes_. 

Rhonda took a breath.  “Okay,” she said after a moment.  And left quickly.  Relieved that Jackson had stepped in but also pissed, that he’d felt the need to (Jackson, her protective little cousin, she loved him).  But I mean, what was _wrong_ with her?  And Sam, seriously, he had to settle down.

She walked through the back room’s open doors towards the dining room, passing Dean, who was frying up table four’s double order of sausage and eggs.  Made a point of sounding businesslike.  “Anything I need to know about, Dean?”

He didn’t acknowledge her.  Rhonda stopped, watching him.  He was grimly turning over the sausages.  Rhonda wondered if he’d been listening to her and Sam.  “Dean?” she asked him again.

He pointed silently at two plates that were sitting on the counter, ready for her to take to the front.

Rhonda was annoyed.  “How come you didn’t call me as soon as they were done?” she said.

Dean shrugged.  “I was about to,” he said.  “You were longer than I figured.”  He was staring down at the sizzling sausages.

Rhonda looked at him, the perfect profile.  Dean didn’t look back.  “Well next time, call me,” she said.  “Okay?”

Dean shrugged again.  “Yes Rhonda,” he said.  He didn’t look at her.

Rhonda stared at him.  She was super pissed suddenly.  At this whole situation.  Which had all developed because of _this_ dude, standing in front of her.  “It wouldn’t hurt to look at me,” she said.  “You know, when we’re having a _conversation.”_

Dean didn’t look at her.  “Oh, is that what this is?” he said.  Turned the sausages.

And didn’t look at her.

Rhonda was furious now.  Dean, standing so indifferently in front of her.  _Dean,_ hot beyond belief, thinking he could flirt with her like a smarmy prick and then _handling_ her, so obviously aware of her interest in him and keeping her at a distance.  And now ignoring her.

Dean.  Twisting her insides around for months.  Turning her into this person who did things that just _weren’t her._

Gloves off.  She was tired of feeling like shit around him.

“Why do you act like such an _asshole?”_ she asked him sharply.  And waited for Dean to turn around.  And deal with this.  So Dean thought he could sulk, give her the silent treatment?  Fine.  They were gonna get that out on the table right now.

Dean snorted.  “I could ask you the same thing.”  Then he cracked four eggs onto the hot grill.  Let them sizzle.  Over easy.

And after a moment Rhonda realized he wasn’t going to say anything more.  Or look at her.  “Better take those plates,” Dean said.  “They’re gonna get cold.”  He flipped the eggs over.

Rhonda looked at him.  And gave up.  She wasn’t going to scream at him in front of a room full of customers.  She turned away, picked up the two waiting plates and brought them over to table nine.

And was ruthlessly professional with Dean afterwards, bringing him orders and taking away plates, the two of them exchanging the minimum amount of words possible.  The room got busy, she called Jackson out to help with the counter.  Sam was doing okay, Jackson reported.

There was an ache in Rhonda’s chest, but she ignored it.

The dinner crowd was mostly gone. 

Rhonda was tired and she was ready for a break.  “Jackson, c’n you keep an eye on things for a few minutes?” she asked.  “I’ll be out back.”

“Sure,” Jackson said.

Rhonda walked to the back, towards Dean (again).  He was chopping up a set of potatoes, readying them for the deep fryer.

Rhonda watched him handle the sharp knife, his hands rapid, efficient, the lumpy potatoes magically resolving themselves into neat roes.  It had been a busy night, with Dean never dealing with less than two orders at once.  And now, the minute he had a break, catching up on the fries.  Dean was good at his job, Rhonda realized.  Just as good as Norm or Cal, who’d been working as cooks for years.  And he’d never worked in a restaurant before, apparently.  And before, at Mr. Morgan’s shop, he’d been good too, she’d heard, Shelley saying that Phil was really sorry to lose him but that Dean had decided working with cars wasn’t for him.

Dean was smart, Rhonda saw.  He just didn’t make a big deal about it.  And nobody noticed, because of his incredible looks, and his cliché ladykiller schtick, and his down home, country boy way of talking.  Everyone just assumed he was kind of a bimbo.  And because he’d dropped out of school (and Rhonda wondered, suddenly, what kind of grades he’d been pulling in – you never thought of highschool dropouts as great students, but Dean had dropped out for other reasons). 

To look after Sam, his brainy little brother, certified genius. 

But Dean was smart.  And he worked hard.  And he looked after his little brother like a mom.

Rhonda wasn’t mad at him anymore. 

She ducked under the counter, went to stand beside him.  “Dean,” she said.

He didn’t look at her.  Kept chopping up the potatoes.  “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” Rhonda said.  “That was uncalled for.”

Dean kept chopping.  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It does though,” Rhonda said.  She hesitated.   Then said, “I’m sorry I’ve been weird with you.  You’ve been doing a great job here.  And I’d like for us to get along.”

Dean kept chopping.  He didn’t answer.

Rhonda looked at him.  He didn’t look back.

“Dean?” Rhonda said.  “You hear what I said?”

Dean put down his knife.  He finally looked at her.  Rhonda blanched.  Dean’s eyes were ice cold.  “Like I said,” Dean said.  “It doesn’t matter.”  And then he picked up his knife again.  Went back to chopping the potatoes.

Rhonda stared at him silently.  She felt tears rising.  She turned and walked away from Dean quickly, before he could see.  Walked through the back room, past Sam who looked up inquiringly, not looking at him, just waving at him to go back to what he was doing.  Opened the back door and closed it firmly behind her.   The message clear.

_(Don’t follow me)._

And stood silently in the cold spring night, smoking.  Thinking.  Trying to calm down.

Dean wasn’t going to get to her, she decided.  He wasn’t going to win, he wasn’t going to _beat_ her.  She could handle this. 

But now, standing in front of Sam.  Who’d just put his hands on her _again,_ pretty blatantly this time.  And Rhonda not feeling particularly calm.

And conscious of the room’s open door, Dean just a few feet away, easily able to hear her.

Her next words would be for both of them.

“Sam,” Rhonda began.  She hesitated.  Sam looking at her, smiling.

“Jackson,” Rhonda said.  “Can you go out front?  I want to speak to Sam here, and I need you to keep an eye on things for me.”

“Dean c’n do that,” Jackson said.

“Jackson!”  Rhonda snapped.  “Go!”  Jackson left, giving her a reproachful look.

Sam, watching her.

“Sam, I-“  Rhonda hesitated again.  This was hard.

“What?”

“You’re a great kid,” Rhonda said slowly.  “And I really like you…”

“I like you too,” Sam said.

Rhonda took a breath.  “But this has to stop,” she said.  “Okay?”

“What has to stop?” Sam asked her.

Rhonda looked at him.  “This,” she said after a moment.  “This teasin we’re doing, playin around with each other…you grabbing me like that.  It’s got to stop.”

“Why?” Sam asked her.

Rhonda looked at him again.  “Because it’s not right,” she said.  “You’re a lot younger than me and I’m _working_ with you now as well as your brother and I didn’t...it’s been getting…it’s just not right, okay?  It’s got to stop.”

“You started it,” Sam said.

Rhonda took a breath again.  “I know,” she said.  “And I shouldn’t’ve.  I was just fooling around.  I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said.  And smiling at her.

Rhonda looked at him.

“You started it,” Sam said to her.  “But I’m finishin it.”

Rhonda stared at him.  “What does _that_ mean?” she asked, after a moment.

Sam smiled at her.  Then started walking towards her.

Rhonda watched this.  He moved like Dean, she realized suddenly.  Why had she never noticed that about him before?  Sam was slender but he was toned, fit…he was just as at home in his body as his brother. 

She held up a hand.  “Stop,” she said.

Sam stopped.  But then he took her hand.  Held it, in both of his.  Turned it over, palm up.

“Sam,” Rhonda said.  “What-“

Sam ran his thumb over her palm.  Very lightly.  That tingling sensation again, oh.  And then he ran his thumb over her wrist.

“I’m not too young for you,” he said.  And his thumb, stroking.  “That’s something we’ve both been just pretendin.  I’m exactly right for you, Rhonda.”  And he was stroking his thumb over her forearm now, holding her elbow gently, when had _that_ happened?  Sam had drawn her in close.

And Rhonda was trembling.  This tall, handsome kid, that smooth, supple mouth smiling, and that voice, Sam’s familiar voice but darker somehow…

“Sam,” she said, making a final effort.  “No.  We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Sam murmured.  “Give me one good reason.”  And his hands were on her shoulders now, Rhonda’s breasts brushing his hard chest, Sam’s warm hard body, Sam still a boy, that boyish face but with the height of a man, a man’s body, Sam beautiful, just as beautiful as his brother-

“Sam.”  Dean’s voice.  “Stop.”

Sam raised his head, which had bent down towards her.  He looked over Rhonda’s shoulder.  “What?”

“Stop,” Dean said.  “Take your hands off her.”

Sam dropped his hands.  Rhonda stepped away from him, turned to face Dean.  Dean was standing in the doorway staring at his brother, his face grim.

“Leave her alone,” Dean said.  “You’ve made your point.”

“Oh yeah?”  Sam asked.  “What point is that?”

“We c’n talk about that later,” Dean said.  “Now apologize to Rhonda for comin at her, like an ass.”

After a moment, Sam turned to Rhonda.  “I’m sorry, Rhonda,” he said.  And gazed at her steadily.

Rhonda looked back at him.  Sam wasn’t sorry.  

“Sure,” she said.  Sam smiled at her, slightly.  Then he looked back at Dean.  “You were listenin in on us,” he said.  He didn’t sound surprised. 

“Yup,” Dean said.  “Sure was.  Now get back to work.  You wanted a job here, so take it seriously.  Rhonda-” and looking at her for the first time.  “You got a new group, just walked in.  Jackson’s started them off but you might want to get out there.”  And he smiled at her.

Rhonda stared at him.  Dean, smiling at her, his eyes warm.   Had he ever looked at her like that?

“Sure,” she said again.  She felt exhausted suddenly.  Drained.  Not up to dealing with customers or anything else.  She gave Sam one last glance then walked away from him, towards the dining room.  Felt Sam’s eyes on her, watching her go.  She passed Dean, not looking at him, not able to, right now.

“Rhonda,” Dean said.

“Later, okay?” Rhonda said to him, “I just…not right now.”  She was walking away from him.

Dean reached out, put a hand on her waist.  Rhonda froze.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” Dean said quietly.

Rhonda felt tears rising again.  She blinked them away.  Dean, speaking to her like a human being for the first time in days.  “Me too,” she replied.  She still wasn’t looking at him.  But then Dean’s hand moved to her shoulder.  Turned her to face him.  Gently, but Rhonda felt the strength in his fingers.  She looked up.  Dean’s green eyes on her.  Rhonda felt herself go still.  Dean, was he about to say something else?  But then Sam came up to stand behind him.  He was slightly taller than Dean, she noticed.  And Sam’s eyes on her, their colour changeable as the weather, now a dark greeny-gray.  And Sam not smiling anymore, his expression grave now, as serious as his brother’s. 

Watching her, quiet.

Sam.

_(I’m exactly right for you)_

But Dean’s eyes on her, focused on her for once.  _Had_ he been about to say something?  But Dean just looked at her.

Waiting for _her,_ seemed like.  But for…what?

Dean.  Occupying her mind since that morning he’d first showed up, bruised and anxious.

Rhonda couldn’t,

she just couldn’t-

Handle this right now.

She turned blindly away.  Turned away, walked away from the brothers.  Towards the customers, waiting.

Later that night.  Jackson gone home.   Dean emptying the grease traps and cleaning the grill.  Sam in the back, clattering around, Dean’s voice speaking to him, telling Sam to get his stuff together, they were going.  Rhonda counting the till, getting ready to close up shop.  Completely exhausted and with a morning shift tomorrow too (Rhonda had given Patricia back most of her morning shifts –Dean worked evenings- but she was working tomorrow morning so she could have Friday night off.  Her and her mom were planning to have dinner together.  And then (blessings) she had Saturday off too and she wasn’t planning to do anything all day but laundry and training).

Yep.  That was her life. 

But only for six more months.  And Rhonda wasn’t complaining, she was going to enjoy this time with her mom while she had it.  Her mom was dreading her leaving, she knew.  After all, it had just been her and Rhonda, all these years.  Rhonda wasn’t looking forward to leaving her mom either.  But she _was_ looking forward to leaving.  God, was she ever.  And now walking away from these _brothers_ …that was extra incentive.

“Rhonda.”  Dean’s voice.

“Just a moment.”  Rhonda didn’t look up from the bills she was counting.  Finished, wrote the number down.  Looked up.  “What?”

Dean, standing there.  And Sam behind him, his backpack slung over his shoulder.   Those two sets of eyes again.  Rhonda looked away. 

“You in tomorrow?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.   Looked at him again, ignoring Sam.  “Not _your_ shift though.  Lucky me, I’m back here at six thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.”  Dean looked disappointed.

Rhonda noticed this.  Asked, “Why?”

Dean hesitated.  Then said, “Sam, go wait in the car.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Just _do it,_ okay?  Jesus.”  Dean took his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Sam.  “Here.  Go.”

Sam had caught the keys one handed.  He watched Dean silently.  Didn’t move. 

“Go!” Dean said.  “Do as you’re _told_ for once, Jesus, what’s the matter with you?”

Sam glared at him.  Dean looked back at him coldly.  Rhonda saw Sam take this in then lower his eyes.  But then he glanced at Rhonda.  Smiled at her.  “G’night, Rhonda.”

Rhonda stared at him without answering.

Because of the way Sam was _looking_ at her.  Like she was something tasty.  A treat, just waiting for him.

Sam didn’t remind her of a puppy anymore.  Not at all.  He looked all grown up. 

Rhonda stared at Sam’s face, all angles, with those slanted eyes under slanted brows, his eyes a golden colour again. 

Sam, with the look of a young wolf. 

Hunting her.  And she felt it, that stunning adrenaline rush.  That prey must feel at the sight of a predator, intent on eating them alive.

Alive, her whole body one crackling nerve.

_Omigod._

Rhonda swallowed.  And she saw Sam notice this, his eyes brightening.

No.  This kid was _not_ getting the better of her.

“Goodnight,” Rhonda said firmly.  No more flirting with Dean’s little brother, that was over.

But Sam, smiling at her.  Then he left.

Rhonda took a breath, collecting herself.  Then turned to Dean.  Who was watching her, his eyes quiet.

Rhonda stared back at him, taking in this new expression. 

Dean, just looking at her.  Quietly.  Not coldly, not casually, not _charmingly._  

And Rhonda had the sense that she was really _seeing_ Dean this time, who he really was, like she’d had a glimpse of before when he’d been upset, too upset to hide himself from her.  But he wasn’t upset right now.

“What did you want?” she asked.

Dean looked at her.  Then dropped his gaze.  He didn’t say anything.

Rhonda, watching this. 

Dean, the gorgeous charmer, always with a line.  And now mute. 

“Dean?” she asked.

He looked up.  That dark green gaze, straightforward now.  As direct as Sam’s, except no playful glint there. 

“Will you go out with me?” Dean asked.

Rhonda was silent.  Then,

 _“What?”_ she asked.

“Go out, you know,” Dean said.  “I’m closin tomorrow, but maybe after?  If it’s not too late for you?”

Rhonda looked at him.  “Um…”

“Or maybe Saturday,” Dean said.  “I’m just workin a half day, finished at four thirty.  Cal’s in for dinner.  We could do something after I’m done maybe.  You’re not workin Saturday, are you?”

“Are you asking me out…on a _date?”_ Rhonda asked.

Dean looked at her.  “Yeah.”

 _“Why?”_ Rhonda asked him.

“…What?” Dean asked.

“Why do you want to go out on a date with me?” Rhonda asked.

Dean looked taken aback.  He’d never had any answer, Rhonda guessed, when he’d asked a girl out, other than, “Oh yes, I’d _love_ to!”

“Um…” Dean said.  “Why not?”

Rhonda looked at him.  “What kind of answer is _that?”_

Now it was _Dean,_ looking at her.  “What do you mean?”

“I _mean,”_ Rhonda said, _“what kind of answer is that?_  You think saying that to me is gonna make me want to _date_ you?”

Dean looked at her.  Rhonda could see he didn’t know how to respond to this.  Okay.  She’d fill him in.  Dating 101.

“You treat me like I’m part of the furniture for months,” Rhonda said.  “And then being all miserable-“

Dean started to say something.

Rhonda interrupted him.  “-Okay, so you apologized and I apologized and we’re cool now…to like, _work_ together…but now…the minute Sam makes this _play_ for me, you ask me _out?_   I mean… _seriously?”_

Dean looked embarrassed.   “I would’ve asked you before,” he said.   “But I didn’t want things to get complicated.  Not with us workin together.”

Rhonda looked at him.  “Really,” she said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “When I got this job, Shelley told me ‘no drama.’  I didn’t want to do anythin that would get me fired, like maybe coming on to her cousin’s daughter who worked here.”

“Really,” Rhonda said again.  “You didn’t ask me out because you were scared of _Shelley?”_

Dean started to grin.  “Well yeah…aren’t _you?”_

Rhonda laughed, she couldn’t help it.  “Yeah, I guess.”  And Dean, grinning at her.

“But you didn’t start here till _January,”_ Rhonda said.  She wasn’t laughing now.  “You had two whole months to ask me out.  You _saw me,_ practically every morning.”

Dean looked away.  “I was shy, I guess.”

“Shy,” Rhonda said. 

“Yeah.”

“So you were _shy_ and then you were _scared,”_   Rhonda said.

Dean looked at her.  He grinned.  “I sound like kind of a loser, don’t I?”

“Uh huh,” Rhonda said.  But she grinned back at him.

And then Dean _smiled._   His hundred watt lightbulb smile, those eyes now a bright light green, gazing at her.  And Rhonda _felt_ that smile, its shine like warmth on her skin.   She felt her own expression break open, helplessly. 

“Well _this_ loser would really like to ask you out,” Dean said. 

_Wow._

Okay. 

But.

“Not worried about things getting _complicated_ anymore?” Rhonda asked him.  “Not worried about _drama?”_

“I think we’re already there,” Dean said.

Oh.

“So nothing to lose _,_ is that it?” Rhonda said.  She felt herself about to get mad at him, again.

“No,” Dean said.  “There’s plenty to lose.  I _need_ this job.  For a while, at least. Till Sammy’s done school for the year.” 

Rhonda took note of this.  Was Dean planning to leave town in June?  She would have been relieved to hear that, about five minutes ago.  But now…that wasn’t her main concern.  She wanted an answer to her original question.

“So _why,_ then?”  Rhonda asked.  “Why ask me out now?”

“Because I think…after today…” Dean hesitated.

“…Yeah?”

“I think you ‘n’ me’ve both shown we can handle drama,” Dean said. 

Rhonda considered this.  Then said, “You never told me no.  When I asked if this was about Sam.”

Dean looked away.  “It’s not about Sam,” he said.

“It’s not?”  Rhonda said.  “I mean, the timing-“

“It’s about me,” Dean said.  He was looking at her again.

“…What do you mean?” Rhonda asked.

“I mean...” Dean said.  “Sam’s been waitin.  For me to make my move, you know?  And he just showed me that if I wasn’t goin to get my act together…he would.”

“…You mean…your act together…around _me?”_   Rhonda asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“So he…decided to come after me…because you _didn’t?”_

Dean looked away again.  “Yeah.  Sorta.”

Rhonda observed this.  She noticed the tips of Dean’s ears were red.  Well, okay.  He _should_ be embarrassed.

“You’re both awful,” she said.  “You _and_ Sam.”

Dean looked at her again, smiling ruefully.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Sorry.”

“How’re you going to explain all this to him? _”_ Rhonda asked. 

Dean shrugged.  “Sammy’s my little brother,” he said.  “He’ll do what I tell him to.  And he’s still just a kid.  You’re too old for him, he knows that.  He’ll back off.”

_(Sam’s eyes on her, golden)_

“You sure about that?” Rhonda asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m sure.  If he knows you’re off limits he’ll back off.”  And then Dean looked at her.  “And you _are_ off limits,” he said.  “Aren’t you?”

Rhonda didn’t answer.

“Rhonda?”  Dean’s eyes on her now.

She smiled at him.  “Let’s have that date first,” she said sweetly.  “And then I’ll let you know.”

And watched Dean’s face as she said this.

They decided on Saturday.

“What do you want to do?” Dean asked her.  “You wanna get dinner somewhere?”

Rhonda considered.  “Mostly when people go for dinner around here, they go the diner.” 

“I know,” Dean said dryly. 

Rhonda laughed.  “We could get pizza,” she said.

“Okay,” Dean said.  “And then maybe, you c’n show me what kids do around here for fun.”

Rhonda snorted.  “Not much,” she said.  “Other than a movie, and the nearest theatre’s the next town over.  We’d have to drive out to it.  You want to do that?”

“Nah,” Dean said.  “Not much of a first date, sittin in a movie theatre.  You grew up here, right?  What else do you do around here?”

“…We could go to the pier,” Rhonda said.  “That’s what people do in the summer.   Go down to the beach and sit on the pier.  It’ll be cold right now but still pretty if you’re okay with that.  You want to do that?”

Dean smiled at her.  “Sure,” he said.

And now sitting at the end of the long wooden pier, their legs dangling into space.  In front of them the vast lake, still icy near the shore, stretching out to a far horizon, pink fading to violet blue.  The first star of the evening, twinkling overhead.

“Nice out here,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Rhonda replied. 

“Nobody around,” Dean said.

“No,” Rhonda replied.  “It’s dead until Memorial Day.  Then all the summer people arrive.  Shore fills up.”

“You like comin down here?” Dean asked her.   “Goin to the beach?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “How bout you?  You like going to the beach?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “When we’re near one, that is.  And Sammy loves it.  He loves the water.  Any chance of swimmin, he’ll just pop himself in.  Findin the local beach or swimming hole was practically the first thing we’d have to do if we arrived at a place durin summer.  Sammy always after us something fierce.  Drivin me ‘n’ my dad nuts.” 

Rhonda looked at him.  Dean was smiling, gazing out into the distance.   This was the most personal information she’d had from him all evening (over pizza they mostly talked about movies they’d seen and she knew a lot now, about Rocky Balboa).  “Sounds like you’ve moved around a lot,” she said.

Dean laughed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You could say that.”  And stopped talking.

Rhonda waited.  Watched Dean, gazing out at the horizon calmly.  He clearly felt he’d said enough on the subject.   Rhonda considered asking more questions (and she had a million of them, she was incredibly curious about the way he and Sam had grown up).  But she remembered all the other times Dean had sidestepped questions like these or shut them down or just looked at his watch, said he had to go and left.  She didn’t want to risk that happening again.  Not now.

“ _I_ haven’t,” Rhonda said.  “I’ve lived here since I was six.”

“Where were you before that?” Dean asked. 

“Chicago,” Rhonda said.  “I barely remember it now.”

“Why’d you move here?” Dean asked.

“My mom wanted to be close to her family,” Rhonda said.  “After my dad died.”

Dean looked at her.  Rhonda saw his face, pale in the fading light.  Those pure features, as compelling as the stark beauty of the falling night surrounding them.  She was staring at Dean now, rapt.  And saw him notice this.  But he didn’t react this time.  And withdraw into that smooth talking charm.

“What happened?” Dean asked.  “With your dad?”

“He got shot,” Rhonda said.  “He was a cop.  Got shot ‘n’ just didn’t come home one night.”  Dean, watching her.  She turned away from his gaze and looked out over the lake.  The old grief.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.  “I know what that feels like.  My mom died when I was four.”

“How?” Rhonda asked him.

Now Dean was looking out into the distance.  “In a fire,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Rhonda said.  She saw Dean smile slightly at her words, repeating his.  “Yeah,” he said.

“Guess that’s why you ‘n’ Sam are so close,” Rhonda said.  Dean looked at her.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You looked after him,” Rhonda said.  “After your mom died.”

Dean looked down.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I did.”

“You’re everything to him,” Rhonda said.  “We c’n all see that.”

Dean didn’t look up.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I know.”

“Makes me kind of jealous actually,” Rhonda said.  “With me being an only child.  I always wanted a sister.  Or a brother.”

Dean looked up at her, grinned.  “You wouldn’t be so jealous if you had babysittin duty, every friggin day of your life.”

Rhonda grinned back.  “I’ve done my share of babysitting,” she said.  “I was the go-to one in my family, you know.  All my little cousins.”

“Like Jackson?”

“Yeah, like him.”

“You’ve got a big family.”

“Yeah.”

“How many of them live around here?”

Rhonda laughed.  “God.  I’ve lost track.  Lots.  An auditorium full.”

“Are any of them…you know…”

Rhonda glanced at him.  “Black?  Like me you mean?”

“…Yeah.”

“No,” Rhonda said.  “That’s just my dad’s family.”

“Is your dad’s family big like your mom’s?”

“No.  That’d be hard, though.”

“Where is your dad’s family?”

“My aunt lives in Rochester.  Two kids.  My grandma’s still in Chicago.  My granddad died before I was born.  I don’t really know any of the others, my grandma had a brother but he died when he was about our age.  And the last time I saw my granddad’s relatives was at my dad’s funeral.”

“You see your grandma or your aunt much?”

“I see my grandma a couple times a year.  Haven’t seen my aunt in a couple years.”

“They get along with your mom?”

Rhonda shrugged.  “Yeah, okay I guess.  Everyone makes an effort.”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “Tell me what it’s been like.”

“What?”

“Growin up here with your family,” Dean said.  “Like you did.”

“What about it?”

“You know, like growin up here…like havin, you know…your mom…havin all these cousins, havin, I dunno, Fourth of July picnics.  Christmas.” 

Rhonda looked at him.  “What do you want to know about it?”

“Everythin,” Dean said.

It was dark now, and bitterly cold.  Talking, Rhonda talking mostly and Dean listening.  Asking questions.  He knew all about her now, Rhonda had told him more about herself in the time it took the moon to rise than she’d told her last boyfriend, all the months they’d been dating.  The wind was whipping in off the lake, chilling them both but they weren’t ready to leave.  At some point Dean had put an arm around her and she’d huddled against him, putting her hands under his jacket.  His body was warm and hard.

“So you gonna miss this place, when you go?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “I will.  I’ve been wanting to leave most of my life, feels like, but when I go, I’ll miss it.  You always miss home.”

“Yeah,” Dean said after a moment.  “Guess so.”  He sounded sad.

Rhonda thought about that.  It didn’t sound like Dean could call _any_ place home, not really.  He hadn’t _been_ anywhere long enough.  She hugged him.  Felt his arm tighten around her.

“You know what I’ll really miss?” she said, after a moment.

“What?”

“Training outdoors,” she said.

Dean laughed.  “No really,” Rhonda said.  “Running you know?  In the fresh air.  Not much fresh air in New York City.”

“You c’n run on the waterfront maybe,” Dean said.  “In parks.  Central Park, that’d be cool.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “But I’ll probably end up training mostly on the track.  Round and round.”

“I wouldn’t mind training _in_ doors, sometimes,” Dean said.  “Doin a workout outdoors in winter is friggin uncomfortable.  Especially in Wisconsin.”

“Why don’t you?” Rhonda asked him. 

“We do, sometimes,” Dean said.  “Go to the Y or somethin.  But it c’n add up, payin to use a gym.  So mostly we train outside.  Or in our room.”

“What do you do?” Rhonda asked.

“Run, lift weights,” Dean replied.  “Sit ups.  That kind of thing.  And Sammy ‘n’ I practice fight.  Hand to hand, you know?  We spar.”

“Wow,” Rhonda said.  “Where’d you guys learn that?”

“My dad,” Dean said.  “He’s a wicked fighter.  Karate, jiu jitsu, you name it.  And friends of his we’d stay with sometimes, lots of them are real good at martial arts too.  They’d show us things.  So Sammy ‘n’ me, we’d pick things up.  ‘N’ then practice with each other.”

“Are you good?” Rhonda asked.  “Like black belt good?”

“Possibly,” Dean said.  “Never taken an exam or anything.  But there was this um, _guy_ once, he’d been, I mean he _was…_ this, like, competitive fighter, black belt of some kind…had awards and pictures of himself all over his livin room…’n’ we were gettin into it ‘n’ you could see he was serious, not about to take any prisoners and I…well…um…let’s say I put him on the ground.  So I guess I’m pretty good.”

“Did he get up?” Rhonda asked him jokingly.

Dean glanced at her, smiling.  He shrugged.   “Didn’t stick around to see.   My dad never told me he _didn’t,_ though.”

“…So you just _left_ the guy there?” Rhonda asked.  “And took off?”

Dean shrugged.  “Had to get back to Sammy.  And my dad stayed to clean things up, I mean...take care of things.  You know.”

“Was he one of your dad’s friends?” Rhonda asked him.

“No,” Dean said.

Rhonda waited.  Dean didn’t say anything else.

“Is Sam as good a fighter as you?” she asked after a moment.

Dean shrugged again.  “He _thinks_ he is,” Dean said.  “He’s gettin there I guess.  I’m the one that trained him mostly.  I _want_ him to be as good as me.  I’ve worked hard to get him there.”

Really?  Why?  Rhonda was wildly curious again. 

“Why?” she asked him. 

Dean looked at her.  “Well, wouldn’t _you_ want your little brother to be able to defend himself?” he said.  “You never know what’s comin.  And it’s my _responsibility_ to make sure he’s ready.  Prepared.”   And then looking at her like she’d just asked him something stupid.

Oh.  Okay.  Well, Dean sort of had a point.  A survivalist nut kind of point.

“Prepared for what?” Rhonda asked him lightly.  “The apocalypse?”

Dean smiled, laughed politely.   Didn’t answer.

“Huh,” Rhonda said after a while.  “I figured you guys worked out but I didn’t think it’d be like _that._   And here I thought _I_ was something.”

“-You _are_ something,” Dean said.

 Rhonda smiled.  The wind was bitter cold but not her.  This conversation was keeping her warm.  “I’d like to know how to fight,” she said.  “I’ve been thinking I should learn…take a class…it might come in handy, especially if I’m running somewhere isolated, you know?”

“Why?”  Dean’s voice was serious now.  “Has someone bothered you?”

Rhonda shrugged.  “It’s not like the city out here, it’s pretty safe.  But back when I was running out in the country sometimes some yahoo’d slow down, ask me if I need a ride, like, ` _Sure_ I need a ride that’s why I’m just runnin along here…in my _track_ clothes…tryin to _ignore_ you, asshole.’”  Dean gave a snort of laughter.  Rhonda grinned.  But then said, “Most of them are just idiots.  And when I tell them no they drive off.  But once these guys, they got out of their truck, they were pretty insistent I come with them.”

“What did you do?” Dean asked.  He sounded grim.

“I took off,” Rhonda said.  “Left the road, crossed a field.  They couldn’t keep up and they couldn’t drive after me so I lost them.”

“Did you report it?” Dean asked.

“I did, but I never got a license plate,” Rhonda said.  “And they weren’t local, I’d never seen them around before and neither had anyone else, apparently.  So it never came to anything.  And the cop I talked to told me I was being stupid, running down the backroads like that in my little short shorts.  Said I was just asking for trouble.  So after that I stopped running so far out.  Stayed in town.”

“You _were_ askin for trouble,” Dean said.  He sounded angry now.  “And you’d’ve been in _real_ trouble if they’d had a gun on them.  That cop was right.”

Rhonda sat up.  Removed her hands from around Dean’s waist and ducked out from under his arm.   “Well aren’t _you_ righteous,” she said.  “I should be able to run wherever I goddamn want without some asshole thinkin that’s an invitation!”

After a moment Dean said, “You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

Rhonda glared at him.

Dean held his arm out to her.  “Come back,” he said.  “You were keepin me warm.”

Rhonda watched him, silent. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Dean said.  “It’s just it made me mad that happened to you.  And it wasn’t your fault, you’re right.  I wish things were different.  I’d like to find those guys and teach them a lesson.”

Rhonda smiled at this, her temper fading.  Dean sounded like he meant it.   She leaned back into him, let him wrap his arm around her again.  Put her hands back under his jacket.  “I’d’ve liked to teach them a lesson too,” she said.  “Show those creeps who think they can pick on someone just cause they’re alone-

“-and a pretty girl-“ Dean supplied.

“Whatever,” Rhonda said.  “Point is, if I’d known jiu jitsu or something…I could’ve _stomped_ them, I wouldn’t’ve had to run.  I could’ve left those guys on the ground, like you did.”

“No,” Dean said.  “You were outnumbered and they were probably bigger than you, am I right?”   Rhonda nodded.  “By runnin, you used your advantage,” Dean said.  “That Bruce Lee thing where you see one little guy take a bunch of guys out with just his skills…that’s movies.  You don’t fight out of your weight class unless you’ve gotta a weapon  and even then I don’t recommend it.  You wanna pick your battles.  Only fight against the odds if you’re cornered.  Nothin wrong with runnin.”

“…Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” Rhonda said.  She was wildly curious again.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Didn’t say anything else.

“That black eye you had…when I first met you…” Rhonda said.  “Did you choose to fight that time?”

Dean laughed.  “No,” he said.  “Four guys jumped me.  I had my knife on me, but still.  Wasn’t great. Trust me, I would’ve hightailed it if I could.  Or talked my way out of it.”

“What happened?” Rhonda asked.

“Bar fight,” Dean said.

“Oh,” Rhonda said.  Waited.

Dean didn’t elaborate.

“You’re not much on detail are you,” Rhonda said, after a moment. 

“Nope,” Dean said.  And didn’t say anything else.

Rhonda snorted with laughter.  Then poked him.

Dean grabbed her hand.  “Hey!”

“Mr. Strong ‘n’ Silent,” Rhonda said.

Dean was holding her hand.  Rhonda felt him caress her palm with his thumb.  She shivered.  “I’m gonna teach you how to fight,” Dean said.  “Not to _stomp_ anyone but to get out of a tight spot.  If you ever need to, again.”

“Okay,” Rhonda said after a moment.  She was ridiculously pleased.  “When?”

“Whenever you want,” Dean said.  “We’ll figure out a time.”

“That’d be great,” Rhonda said.  “I’d like to be able to run my old route again.”

“No,” Dean said.  “That’s not what I meant.  I don’t want you takin risks with yourself like that Rhonda, that cop was right.  The world’s a dangerous place, city _or_ country, doesn’t matter which far as I c’n see.  Specially for someone who looks like you.  I don’t want you _lookin_ for trouble, I just want to know you have skills, just in case.”

“I _wasn’t_ looking for trouble,” Rhonda said.  “I was just running back from the beach.  I had this great route that was really pretty.  Used to run it all the time, a lot more fun that just running around town.  But I haven’t since I had that scare.”

“You want to run that again I’ll run it with you,” Dean said.  “You c’n show it to me after we practice some hand to hand.  How’s that sound?”

Rhonda laughed. 

Dean looked at her.  “What?”

“Are you asking me out on another date?” Rhonda said.

Dean, looking at her.  Then he grinned.  “Yeah, I guess I am.  Cheap date, huh?”

“No,” Rhonda said.  And she was smiling back.  “Sounds like the best date ever.”

“Better than this one?” Dean asked her.

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  “Make that the second best date ever.”

Dean looked at her.  Then kissed her.

Just lightly.  And drew back. 

Rhonda stared at him.  She wasn’t breathing.

Dean, looking at her.  “Did I fuck things up?” he asked eventually.

Rhonda watching this.  Dean’s eyes on her.  She couldn’t hold his gaze suddenly.  She turned and looked out over the lake.  “No,” she said.

Dean was quiet.  But then he reached out.  And gently trailed his fingers along her throat.

It felt incredibly good.  Rhonda felt her eyelids fluttering.  But the sensation wasn’t surprising somehow.  She’d been touched like that before.  And not that long ago.

Sam had touched her like that.

“Stop,” she whispered.

Dean dropped his hand.  “Sorry,” he said.

Rhonda didn’t respond.  She stared out at the dark lake fading blue to clear dark sky, conscious of Dean beside her, watching her.  Then he turned to look at the lake too.  Both of them silent, their eyes on the vast dark blue space in front of them.

“I don’t know what to do here,” Dean said after awhile.  “I don’t want you gettin mad at me again.”

Rhonda laughed.  “You noticed I was mad at you?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean said dryly.

Rhonda laughed again.  “Well why do you feel like you _have_ to do something?” she asked him.  And leaning against Dean comfortably now, letting him take her weight.

Dean was quiet.  “I dunno,” he said after a moment.  “But I always do.  Guess that’s the way I’m made.”

“Sam’s not like that,” Rhonda said.  She felt Dean stiffen.

“No,” Dean said.  And his voice was different.

“He pretty much does what he wants, doesn’t he?” Rhonda said.

“Most of the time,” Dean said.  “Not always.”

Rhonda looked at him.  Dean was staring thoughtfully out at the lake.  His arm was still around her, but absently now, not really holding her anymore.  His face in shadow except for a gleam of the moon, shining coldly on his forehead.

“I’m freezing,” Rhonda said abruptly.  And she was shivering, huddled against Dean’s warm body but shivering.

“Let’s go back to the car,” Dean said. 

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  They stood up.

And stood facing each other in the cold wind.

Rhonda could see that Dean was thinking about what to do next.  About their options, what he and her could do from here, what _he_ could do.  What he was used to doing maybe.  Taking his date back to his car, getting her out of the cold wind and then the two of them turning to each other, coming together, grappling, fumbling in the awkward space, just two bodies now, doing what was expected of them at that point, preliminary conversation out of the way.  What Dean was _used_ to doing with girls, conversation optional.  Dean falling back into his role.

Of gorgeous stranger/drifter/heartbreaker.  According to the script.

_(Why do you feel like you have to do something?)_

Rhonda, asking Dean that.  And Dean looking surprised.

Rhonda decided she wasn’t playing to the script.

“You can kiss me again,” she said.  “Then take me home.”

Dean stared _._

“…You mad at me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “Real mad.  That’s why I asked you to kiss me.”

And waited.

After a moment, Dean smiled slightly.  “You’re scarin _me_ now,” he said.

“Good,” Rhonda said.  And waited.

Dean smiled again.  Then visibly took a breath.  “Okay,” he said.  “Here goes.”   And he reached out and grasped her shoulders.  Hesitated.  But then bent his head and kissed her.

Carefully, his lips tentative.

Rhonda stood still, savouring this.  But then she kissed him back.  Not so carefully.  She put her arms around Dean’s neck and let herself fall against him, the hard warm length of Dean.   And felt his arms come around her waist, now holding her tight.  He adjusted his stance, fitting himself against her.  After a moment, Rhonda moved also, to accommodate him.  And felt the bulge of his cock now pressed between her legs, oh.  Rhonda moaned, involuntarily.  But then she rubbed herself against him.  And heard Dean’s soft hiss of breath.  His hands moved to her butt, curving around, pressing her against him more tightly.  And he kept kissing her, his lips harder now, his mouth opening.

Dean’s lips on hers, hungry now. 

Omigod, she’d been dreaming about this.  Rhonda felt her own lips softening, parting.

Dean put his tongue in her mouth.

Rhonda broke the kiss, stepped back.  Dean’s arms fell to his sides.  Rhonda looked at him.  Dean was staring at her, his eyes dark now.  She could see he was considering stepping forward, to pull her into his arms again.  She held up a hand.   “No.”

Dean looked at her.

“That’s all you get tonight,” Rhonda said.   Dean pressed his lips together.  He looked…

…rather pissed off.

Rhonda smiled.  “No cheap dates from me,” she said.

Dean, looking at her.  Then he laughed.   “I gotta _earn_ the rest, huh?”  His eyes weren’t dark anymore.

“Yep,” Rhonda said. 

“Are you expensive?” Dean asked her.

“Very,” Rhonda said. 

“I’m pretty broke,” Dean said to her.  He was smiling.  “My salary’s minimum wage plus meals.  And every time Sammy orders steak, Cal asks me to put in an extra hour or two off the clock.  And do somethin fun, like cleanin the bathrooms.”

“Really,” Rhonda said.  “Cal being that way.  Shocking.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Not sure I c’n afford you.”  And he stopped smiling, suddenly.  Like he was thinking about what he’d just said.

Rhonda looked at his expression, serious now, a little remote.  Dean looked quite formidable when he wasn’t smiling, she realized.  That pretty face sure, but Dean was a tall, strongly built man, magnificent in the first flush of youth, and clearly used to handling himself. 

Looking out for himself, in spite of being young. 

And not just for himself.   Sam too.  Dean had a man’s responsibilities.

“Someone like you,” Rhonda said, “You’ll figure it out.”

Dean smiled at her again.

Now walking Rhonda to her door, waiting as she opened it.  “House is dark,” Dean said.  “Where’s your mom?”

“Doing an overnight shift,” Rhonda said.  “She won’t be back till late tomorrow morning.”

“Long hours,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “She’s been putting in the hours.   To help me pay for school.  Next few years are gonna be tight for us, even with the scholarship.”

“That’s great,” Dean said.  “That she’s helpin you out like that, I mean.  Sacrificin for you.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “I’m lucky.  A lot of parents wouldn’t do that.  It’d never even occur to them.”

Dean nodded.  He looked sad, somehow.  “No,” he said quietly. 

But then said in a different voice, “What mornin is good for you to train with me next week?  We c’n meet before we go on shift, after I drop Sam off for school.”

Rhonda considered.  “Wednesday’s fine,” she said.  “Where d’you want to meet?”

“Here, if that’s okay,” Dean said. 

“You don’t want to go to the community centre?” Rhonda asked.  “There’s space to train there.  More room than here.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Don’t want an audience.  People don’t need to see what I’m teachin you.”

Rhonda grinned.  “Now _I’m_ scared.”

Dean grinned back.  “Don’t be,” he said.  “And we don’t need much space, livin room should be fine.    Sammy ‘n’ me’ve mostly sparred in motel rooms and we’re real good at throwin each other around without breakin the furniture.”

Rhonda stared at him.  Dean, saying yet another weird thing.

Dean noticed.  “Or we c’n use the backyard, if you want,” he said. 

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  “Whatever works.”

Dean nodded.  Then pulled out his cellphone.  “Lemme get your number,” he said. 

Rhonda gave it to him.  “That’s not a cellphone though,” she said.  “I don’t have one.  That’s my home phone ‘n’ we have an answering machine.  My mom and me,” she added pointedly.

Dean smiled.  “Okay,” he said.  “I’ll keep that in mind, if I leave you any messages.”

Rhonda smiled back.  She considered asking Dean for his number but then decided…nah.  If she had it, she’d be tempted to call him.  Before Wednesday.  Let Dean call her. 

She leaned forward and kissed Dean on the lips, just briefly.  “Bye.”

Dean wasn’t smiling now.   “Bye,” he replied quietly. 

“I had fun tonight,” Rhonda said.

“Me too,” Dean said.   And those green eyes, looking at her.

Rhonda felt her smile getting wobbly.  She went inside without saying anything further and closed the door behind her.  Locked it.  Then leaned her back against it, shaking.

My god. 

My god, she’d just had a date with _Dean,_ like she’d been dreaming of for months.  And he’d _kissed_ her, omigod.  And now with a _second_ date coming up.  So Dean could teach her how to fight _._   And then run with her, on that beautiful route that took her down to the lake and then miles out into the country through rolling Wisconsin farmland.  She’d always run that alone, before.

She was dying, here.

Dying.

Rhonda leaned her head back against the door.  She was breathing hard.  Listened to the growl of Dean’s car as he drove away.

_Dean._

Dean, leaning into her.   Kissing her.  Her kissing _him,_ her body pressed against his, burning.  Dean’s hands on her waist, her butt.  His cock, nudging between her legs.  Rhonda’s hands moved between her legs, fingers seeking out her clit, sealed away under the hard fabric of her jeans, and pressed down hard, the sharp, electric shock.  And then pressed down again, leaning against the door, shuddering. 

Dean’s strong hands on her, his hands on her clit, like this.  Dean’s mouth on her breasts.  Rhonda slipped one hand under her jacket, cupped one of her breasts, held it, testing the feel of it, its weight, how her breast would feel cupped in Dean’s hand.  She ran her thumb over the hard point of her nipple, pushed up against the fabric of her bra.

God.  She had to calm down, she was burning, about to fly out of her skin.  She couldn’t stay here, alone in this dark house with her mom not home for hours, her friends all away, off to their new lives, no one to call and talk to about this _event,_ this major _event_ that had just happened to her.  She would go nuts.

A run.  She could go on a run, through the dark streets of the town.  Work off steam.

But she’d already run earlier today, a long, tough workout, and it was cold and windy and dark.  And somehow that’s not what her body needed right now.

_(Dean, his hands, his mouth on her, his weight pressing her down, that’s what her body needed right now)_

No.  Forget running.  She needed to be naked, she needed to _be_ with herself right now, up close and personal with her own skin.

A bath.  That sounded good.

Rhonda kicked off her shoes.  Shrugged out of her jacket, leaving it on the floor.  Walked through the dark house, up the stairs towards the bathroom, confident in the dark, the familiar angles and corners and passageways of her house, known to her since childhood.  Flicked on the lights in the bathroom, turned on the taps to start filling the bath.  Caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror, her wide goldy-greeny eyes, a tumble of windblown curls.  Looked at her mouth.

_(That Dean had kissed)_

Rhonda smiled at herself in the mirror.  She was wicked hot, she knew it, and she’d seen this confirmed in Dean’s expression as he looked at her.  Still watching herself, she stripped slowly in front of the mirror, watching her smooth, sleek body as it emerged from under the clothes, the vision of Dean’s eyes on her, doing this for him.  The high round breasts, the smooth violin curves of hips and thighs, the dark fleecy notch between her legs.  Rhonda touched herself again, the sight of her long fingers against the soft folds of flesh, there.  Put a hand on one breast, pinched her own nipple.  Imagined herself, standing in front of Dean, doing this, Dean’s green eyes on her darkening.

The bath was ready.  Rhonda climbed in carefully, hissing at the sting of the hot water.  Settled herself down.  Touched herself again in the bath, the water lapping her, folding over her, enfolding her like a blanket, the hot water between her legs, her fingers between her legs, pressing, digging down, curling into the tingling, burning flesh there until it was pulsing, radiating with pleasure and her breath shuddering.

Now lying quietly in the cooling water. 

She was working tomorrow, Sunday brunch.  But not with Dean, Cal usually worked the Sunday shift.  Rhonda wouldn’t see Dean until Monday. 

And then, only to work with him.  Right? 

Rhonda closed her eyes.

_(Dean standing in his usual place behind the grill, seeing her, those green eyes locking onto her.  Rhonda smiling, making her way past him into the back room, Dean following her, Dean pulling her into the little pantry, Dean pressing her against the the wall in the dark pantry, kissing her against the wall, Dean kissing her so fiercely, Dean putting his tongue in her mouth like he’d done just before she’d stopped him, earlier…)_

_Oh_ yeah.

But then Rhonda thought about this a little more.

Dean and her, ducking into the pantry under the interested eyes of _Sam,_ who’d be standing there, washing dishes.

Uh huh.  Awkward.

Rhonda considered this.  The whole situation could potentially be very awkward.  _Dean_ didn’t seem too worried, he seemed to think that Sam would just back off if he told him to.

But Rhonda wasn’t so sure.  And also…she didn’t want Sam feeling bad.  I mean, Sam clearly had a crush on her and she’d _encouraged_ it, which hadn’t been too nice of her, she understood that.

But…oh well.  Whatever.  When you came down to it, Sam was just a fifteen year old kid.  He’d never had a real chance with her anyway, even if Dean hadn’t been in the picture.  And the only reason she’d even _noticed_ Sam (and let things progress the way they had) was because of his brother.  And now that Dean was clearly over whatever had been holding him back from asking her out…well…

…they’d figure it out.  The three of them, so they could all continue to work together, under Shelley’s watchful eyes.  Maybe Rhonda would speak with Sam, in a nice way, on Monday, letting him know she understood that Dean was counting on this job and it was important that none of them do anything to fuck that up.  That _she_ certainly wouldn’t do anything…and this included encouraging any more drama between the brothers over her.  Sam would just be like her own little brother from now on (and apologies etc., if she’d given him a different impression, but that’s the way it would be now, and of course, Dean had told her he’d be telling Sam to back off, too).  So it wasn’t like Sam would be surprised.

Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

The bathwater was cool now and Rhonda was getting sleepy.  She rose out of the tub, dried off and pulled on her bathrobe.  Scooped up her clothes and started towards her bedroom, turning off the bathroom light.

The hallway wasn’t dark. 

There was a dim light, coming from downstairs.

Rhonda paused. 

When she’d come in, the house had been pitch dark.  Hadn’t it?  And she hadn’t turned on any lights.

Had her mom come home while she’d been in the bath? 

But when her mom came home, she’d call out, letting Rhonda know she was in the house (and Rhonda would do the same thing for her mom, when _she_ came home).  And she’d always _hear_ her mom, rustling around in the kitchen, the TV on, that kind of thing.

The house was silent.

Rhonda stood frozen in the hallway.  Then she quietly put down her armful of clothes.  Wrapped her robe around herself tightly.  Peered down the stairs.

The light was coming from the living room.  A lamp was on.

Rhonda was breathing shallowly.  If there was someone in the house she was running screaming into the street.  She’d run to the neighbours next door, the Wilsons were always home.  Maybe she should just do that anyway, go straight out the back door.

But what if it _was_ just her mom?  Then Rhonda would look ridiculous.  Not to mention freezing, outside barefoot in her bathrobe.  No, she’d check first.  Peek in.  She could still get away.  She was fast.

Rhonda crept quietly down the stairs and walked softly down the hallway.  Peeked around through the entrance to the living room.

 _Sam_ was sitting there.

Sprawled back on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his long legs crossed at the ankle.  Reading a book.

Rhonda stood there dumbly, staring.

Sam put his book down, looked up.

“Hi,” he said.

“Sam!” Rhonda hissed.  Once she could speak.  “You _scared_ me!  And what the fuck are you _doing_ here!  Dean said he’d left you at home today!”

“Sorry,” Sam said calmly.  “I hitched in after Dean went to work.  I’ve been waitin for you.  You took awhile.”

“What do you mean you’ve been waiting for me!” Rhonda said.  “You mean you’ve been _in the house,_ all this time?”

Sam shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I figured I’d wait here for you guys.  But Dean didn’t come in like I was expectin.  And then you like…um…went upstairs.  _Most_ people when they come home, they turn on the lights first thing.”  He looked at her.

Had Sam seen what she’d been doing to herself, in the front hallway?  Rhonda was furious now.  Yelled at him.

“You mean to tell me you’ve just been _lurking_ in here, in _my_ house, in the _dark?”_

Sam grinned, ruefully.  “Yeah.  Sorry.”

Rhonda was _furious._   “And what if my _mom_ had come home before me?” she yelled.  “You’d’ve scared the _life_ out of her!”

“Your mom’s workin at the hospital tonight,” Sam said.  “I checked.  ‘N’ anyway, if she’d come home unexpectedly, I would’ve just left before she even knew I was here.  _That’s_ why I was waitin here without the lights on.”

He sounded so reasonable.

“Well you can leave right goddamn _now!”_   Rhonda said.  She was glaring at him, clutching her robe closed tight against her throat.  “’N’ the next time I see Dean I’m gonna fill him in on this little prank of yours –how’d you get _in,_ anyway?”

Sam shrugged again.  “Wasn’t hard,” he said.  “You should have better locks, you ‘n’ your mom, livin here by yourselves.  Not that it would matter much to me though.”  He looked at her.  “I c’n get in, most any place I want.”

“Well now you c’n _get out!”_   Rhonda snapped.

Sam smiled.  Then unfolded himself from the couch.  Stood up.  Rhonda stared at him, swallowing.  Sam was younger than her, true.  But he was also considerably taller.

“You have a nice time with my brother?” Sam asked her.

“None of your fuckin business!” Rhonda said.

Sam smiled.  “Oh yes it is,” he said.  “Dean only asked you out because of me, haven’t you figured that out yet?”

What?

“That’s not true!” Rhonda said.  “Or…well…he asked me out because he figured he’d better get to it.  Because of what you were starting to do.  He told me that himself.”

“Because of what _we_ were startin to do,” Sam said.   “It wasn’t just me.  Dean could see you were gettin genuinely interested in me.  After all those weeks of pattin me on the head to get his attention.”  And Sam cocked his head, looking at her again.

Rhonda hesitated.  “Sam…I’m…we already _talked_ about that _,_ okay?” she said, aiming for a calmer tone.  “I didn’t mean for things to go that far and I’ve already apologized.”  And then, her voice rising again.  “And anyway, that doesn’t give you the right to break into my house!”

“No,” Sam agreed.  “But I’m here anyhow.  ‘N’ you know why?”  He paused.

Rhonda stared at him.

“Because you _weren’t_ leadin me on just because of Dean,” Sam said.  “Not at the end.”  And he stared back.

Rhonda swallowed.  “Look, I…” she paused.  “I got carried away, okay?”  Sam didn’t say anything.  “You’re too young for me, Sam,” Rhonda continued.  “Even if Dean hadn’t been around, it wouldn’t’ve worked out, can’t you see that?  And I’ve liked Dean for a long time and you _know_ that Sam, I _know_ you know that.  And he…likes me too…he’s asked me out again.” 

Sam looked at her.  He didn’t say anything.

“…And now that _that’s_ happened…you wouldn’t want to ruin things for us.  Would you?”  Rhonda asked him.  And Sam, standing there silently.  Staring at her.  

“Sam?” Rhonda said, after a moment.  “You wouldn’t do that, would you?  You’re not that kind of guy.”

Sam didn’t say anything.  Watched her.

Rhonda took a breath.  Then persisted.   “And we still all have to work together,” she said.  “I don’t want Dean getting into any trouble with Cal and Shelley because of this.”  And looked at Sam, meeting his eyes steadily now.  “And _you_ don’t want that either, I know that.  I know he’s supporting you.”

Sam was quiet.

“I like you Sam, truly,” Rhonda said.  “I think you’re a great kid.  And I can see how much Dean loves you.  I don’t want to make any trouble between you and him.”

“You already have,” Sam said.

Rhonda looked down.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I wish I could fix that.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Rhonda looked up, seeing Sam’s quiet face, those weird colour eyes, watching her.  Then she spoke again, carefully, the words coming hard.  “What…what do you want me to do?  Tell Dean I won’t go out with him?”

“It’s too late for that,” Sam said.

“What do you mean?” Rhonda said.

“I mean…it’s too late,” Sam said.  “You stop seein Dean now…because of me…you think _that’s_ gonna fix things?  I c’n just see Dean thankin me for _that._   Nah.  That trouble’s already been made and at this point it’s between me ‘n’ him.  Not you.  So you go ahead and go out with him.  Just like you want.”

Rhonda stared.  Spoke, after a moment.  “…Um...okay.  So-”

“-But you’re goin out with me too,” Sam said.

Rhonda, staring.  Had she just heard that?

 _“What!”_ she said.

“We’re a package deal,” Sam said.  And then he smiled at her.

Rhonda looked at this.  This tall kid with the tumble of silky hair and the bright eyes, standing there.  _Smiling_ at her.

“Are you _nuts?”_ Rhonda asked him.

Sam shook his head, smiling.  Said, “Dean wants to go out with you now.  That’s fine.  You got him interested with all your foolin around.  With _me._   Cause it got _me_ interested.  Your plan worked Rhonda, congratulations.  But the catch is, now you gotta go out with me, too.”

“…I’m not doing _that!”_ Rhonda snapped.  “Who d’you think I _am,_ Sam?  My _god!_   And also…how’s _Dean_ gonna react when he finds out what you’re trying to pull?  If _I_ was him, I’d _whip_ your ass!”

Sam blinked.  Then said, “Now that’d be interestin.”

Now _Rhonda_ blinked.  “What… _shut_ up!  My point is…I’d _never_ date you at the same time I’m dating your brother.  I’d never do that…I’m not like that.  I think the best thing for you to do is go on home and we’ll forget this conversation ever happened.  I’m not gonna tell Dean you came over here if you promise me you’ll never try anything like this again.”

“He already knows I’m here,” Sam said calmly.

Rhonda’s mouth opened.  “What!  _How?”_

“I left him a note,” Sam said. 

“You did _what!”_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “Just in case I missed you guys.  Wanted to make sure I had a ride back to our place.  I can’t call Dean once he’s all the way back cause our phones don’t work out in the woods.  And I didn’t want to have to try to hitch back in the dark.  Plus Dean likes me to tell him where I am.  So he doesn’t worry.”

Rhonda stared at him.  She could think of nothing to say.

“He’s on his way back here now,” Sam continued.  “He started callin me, like twenty minutes ago.  I’ve had my phone on silent.”

Rhonda stared at him.

“He should be here soon,” Sam said.

Rhonda stared at Sam, standing in front of her, now with his phone out, looking at it, smiling. 

Killing this kid.  It was an option.  Dean wouldn’t like it though.

“You’re _trying_ to fuck things up for me, aren’t you,” she said.  “You’re mad at me, for choosing Dean over you.”

“Nope,” Sam said.  “I’m not mad.  And you’re _not_ choosin Dean over me.  Like I said, you’re gettin both of us.”

“Sam,” Rhonda said.  “That’s not happening.”

Sam, looking at her now.  “Sure it is,” he said.

“Sam,” Rhonda repeated.  _“No.”_

Sam was quiet.  Watching her.  Then he shrugged.  “Okay,” he said.  “So when Dean gets here, I’m telling him we’re done with this town.  We’ll leave tonight ‘n’ join up with our dad.”

Rhonda was wordless.

Again.

Sam regarded her calmly.

“Let me get this,” Rhonda said slowly, eventually.  “You’re telling me you’re prepared to…just…pick up and _leave?_ Just like that?  Drop out of school?”

“Yup,” Sam said calmly.

“…and ask Dean to walk out on his _job_ with no notice, just disappear…with Cal and Shelley _counting_ on him?”  Rhonda asked.

“Yup,” Sam repeated.

“Don’t you… _care_ about those things?” Rhonda asked.

Sam shrugged.  “Sure,” he said.  “But right now I care more about _this.”_ And looked at her, significantly.

“About _what?”_ Rhonda said.

Now Sam was looking at _her_ like she was nuts.

“About datin _you,_ of course,” he said.

 _“…Why?”_ Rhonda asked.

“Because it’s time,” Sam said.  “Time I had a girlfriend.  I’ve watched Dean go with girls for like, forever, and now it’s my turn.  And girls like you…they don’t come around every day.”

Girls like you.

“Girls like me,” Rhonda  repeated.

“Yeah.”

“What is it about _me?”_ Rhonda asked dangerously.   She was frowning.

“Other than the fact that you’re smokin hot,” Sam said.  “You have what it takes.”

“…To do _what?”_   Rhonda asked.

“Take us both on,” Sam said matter-of-factly.  “You can handle the situation.  The way I _want_ it handled.”  And he looked at her again.  A calm, direct look.  A _leadership_ look, like Rhonda would get from her coach.

_(You can handle the situation)_

Who _was_ this kid?  And from what planet?

“ _How?”_ Rhonda asked him helplessly.  “How’m I supposed to do _that?”_

“So Dean’s happy,” Sam replied quietly.

And now he looked young again.  Just Sam, Dean’s kid brother with the puppy eyes.  Gazing at her.

Rhonda was silent.  Then said.  “I don’t think have what it takes, Sam.  You’re asking too much of me.”  She looked at him, saw Sam’s expression change as she said this.  “And it’s crazy,” she added.

After a moment, Sam shook his head.  “Nah,” he said.  “You’ll be fine.”  And then he smiled at her reassuringly, his fragile look gone now.

He wasn’t denying the crazy part, Rhonda noticed.

She shook her head.  “I don’t think so.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Stop pretendin.  If you weren’t up for it, you’d be actin differently.  You’d’ve called the cops by now.  Had me up for break ‘n’ enter.”  He looked at her.  “But you didn’t.  Because you knew Dean wouldn’t like it.  And because _you_ like _me_ too much to get me in that kinda trouble.”

Brat.

“I don’t like you much right _now,”_ Rhonda snapped at him.

Sam shrugged.  “You don’t like what you’re _hearin_ right now,” he said.  “But you like me.  If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be puttin up with this conversation.”  And he looked at her.  “And you wouldn’t have _started_ with me.  To begin with.”  And he smiled, engagingly.

_Brat._

“I wish I’d _never_ started with you,” Rhonda said.  “I wish I’d taken one look at you and _run._   In the other direction!”

“Don’t say that,” Sam said.  “You were real good at it.  Shame to let all that talent go to waste.”

“…Excuse me?” Rhonda asked.  _“What_ was I good at?”

“Bein a tease,” Sam said.  “Even _I_ could learn a few tricks from you, Jesus.”

 _What_ had he just said?

 _“Pardon?”_ Rhonda asked.

“Never mind,” Sam said.  “Point is, you’re the girl.  You’re right for the situation we got here.  And Dean seems okay with you.” 

And then Sam looked at her again.  “And _you’re_ the one I want.  You made sure of that.”  And his voice was different now.

Rhonda felt the dark rub of that voice, almost like a physical touch on her skin.  And Sam, looking at her, his eyes golden.  She swallowed.

“Well what about what _I_ want?” she asked.  She’d meant to sound indignant but her voice came out all breathless.  She saw Sam notice this.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Maybe _I_ don’t want this,” Rhonda said.  She was recovering herself.  “Forget whether I’m up for it, Sam, maybe I just don’t _want_ it.”  And her voice was firm.

Sam didn’t seem impressed. 

“Sure you do,” he said.  “You’re just not admittin it.  Bein stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn!” Rhonda snapped.

Sam rolled his eyes again.  “Trust me, I know stubborn when I see it.”

Rhonda had had enough.

“Okay genius,” she said.  “You’re so sure I want this sort of crazy…with you _and_ your brother?  Convince me.  You’ve got thirty seconds.  And after that you’re out of my house.  You c’n wait for Dean on the porch.  And if you give me any more hassle I _am_ calling the police.”

Sam looked at her. 

Rhonda looked back.  She crossed her arms, glaring at him.  Sam’s eyes dropped to her feet.  He raised his eyebrows.  She was tapping her foot, Rhonda realized.  She stopped.  And glared at Sam again.  “I’m not feeling real convinced so far,” she said.  “Clock’s ticking, _Sammy.”_

“Okay,” Sam said after a moment.  “Fine.  You’ve made up your mind, I c’n see that.  I’m not gonna argue.  I’ll just wait outside for Dean.  And when he picks me up we’ll go.  And get out of your life.  For good.”  He picked up his jacket.

“…What?” Rhonda said.

“We’re drivin out of here, tonight,” Sam said.  He shrugged his jacket on.  Turned to go.

“-Wait!” Rhonda said.

Sam turned.   Looked at her, questioningly. 

“So you’ll just…leave town?” Rhonda said.  “Drop out of school right during mid terms…just like _that?”_

Sam looked bored.  “Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

“You’re bluffing,” Rhonda said.  “Dean would _never_ go along with that.  He’d never let you just drop out of school.  And I don’t think he’d walk out on his job, either.”

Sam smiled.  “Who knows him better?” he asked.  “Me or you?”

Rhonda stared at him.

Sam stared back.  “If I ask him,” he said slowly, “Dean will drive outa here tonight.  We’ll be gone for good in like, half an hour.  And you’ll never see us again.”  His eyes were intent now.

Rhonda stared at him, helplessly.

“Dean’s here because of me,” Sam continued.  “He’s givin me the school year in one place, like he promised.  But if I tell him it doesn’t matter anymore…that we c’n go…that I _want_ to go…he’ll go.  And we’ll be off to join our dad.  On the road again.”  He smiled at her.  “This town’ll just be a few fadin memories.  Added to the pile.”

“But what about…” Rhonda started. 

She couldn’t continue. 

_Dean’s eyes on her._

_(You are something)_

Dean and her, holding each other in the cold wind.  Rhonda telling him about herself, her life, her growing up.  About what made her happy.  Sad.  And Dean listening, hungrily.

Rhonda telling him everything.  Like he’d asked for.

Could Dean really let go of her so easily?

“He’ll chalk you up to experience,” Sam said.  And staring at her, calmly.

Rhonda felt her lips trembling.  “You little shit,” she said.  ”Maybe you _should_ just go.”

Sam looking at her.  “I will.  If you want.  And I’ll take Dean with me.”

Rhonda was silent.

“Just say the word,” Sam said.  “And I’ll leave.  I’ll leave right now.  I’ll call Dean and he ‘n’ I’ll drive off.  And you’ll never see us again.”

Rhonda was silent.

“Thirty seconds is up,” Sam said after a moment.  His voice was mild. 

Rhonda was silent. 

Seething.

Sam grinned at her.  “You convinced yet?” he asked.  “Or do you want me to go outside and wait on the porch?”

“You little asshole,” Rhonda said. 

Sam laughed.  “Is that a yes?” he said.  And waited.

Rhonda decided not to slap him.

“Take your jacket off,” she said.  Through her teeth.  “I guess we’re waiting for Dean together.”

Sam’s jacket was off.  He laid it carefully over the back of the couch and sat down.  Turned to Rhonda, his eyes bright.  “What should we do while we’re waitin?” he asked.  “You wanna make out?”

 _“No!”_ Rhonda snapped.

Sam looked disappointed.  “Why not?” he said.  “We should take advantage of our time before Dean gets here.  He’s gonna be showin up all riled.  It’ll take awhile to settle him down.  More _talkin.”_

This was getting better and better.

“Great,” Rhonda muttered.  She glared at Sam.

Sam seemed oblivious to this.  He patted the couch cushion, beside him.  “C’mere,” he said.  “Let’s snuggle.  Or maybe…” he looked at her.  “Rhonda,” he said.  “Will you sit on my knee?”

 _“What?”_ Rhonda said.  _“No!”_

Sam looked at her.  “Pretty please?” he said.  And blinked. 

This kid. 

Rhonda felt herself starting to smile, in spite of herself.  “No, Sam,” she said.  “Forget it.”

Sam patted his knee.  “C’mon.  You’re gonna end up here eventually.  And you already agreed, anyways.”

“I didn’t agree to anything!” Rhonda said.

“Sure you did,” Sam said.  “You’re still here, aren’t you?  And so’m I.”  And he smiled at her, invitingly.

That smile, all cheekbones, dimples and white flashing teeth.  And those golden eyes, twinkling at her. 

_Omigod._

_Wow._

No.

“I’m only here because I want to hear what _Dean_ has to say about all of this,” Rhonda said.  Like she meant it.  “Hear his thoughts on this crazy plan of yours.  And then watch him _kick_ your ass.”

Sam looked wounded.  “You wouldn’t _really_ want that, would you?” he asked her.

And blinked.

And now those eyes, as deep and limpid as pools.  Rhonda thought of Dean, turning on Sam, all angry.  Of _anyone,_ doing that. 

_(To Sam, her little puppy)_

“No,” Rhonda said, eventually.  Then she sighed, exasperated.  “I guess not."

Sam grinned at her.  “He’s gonna be showin up real mad though.  You’ll have to tell him to cool it, okay?  So I don’t get in trouble.  Tell him that you ‘n’ me, we’ve decided on this.  So nobody’s gonna lose out.”

Oh.  So suddenly she and Sam were in this _together?_

This kid.  Seriously.

“You’ve sure got a lot of nerve,” Rhonda said.  

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I know.  You’ve _gotta_ have nerve, dealin with Dean.  He c’n be pretty nerve-wrackin.  But if you handle him right, he’s a pussycat.  And between you ‘n’ me, we c’n handle him.”  He looked at Rhonda again.  “And I know you’ve got what it takes.”

Rhonda was smiling now, reluctantly.  She shook her head.  “To what?  Handle your _brother?”_

Sam, smiling back.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Between you ‘n’ me, we’ll handle him so he’s _purrin.”_

Dean purring.  The vision of that.  Rhonda blinked.  But then said, “What exactly the fuck does _that_ mean?”  But she was laughing now, reluctantly.  I mean, this conversation was just so _weird._  

Entertaining though.

Wait.

Rhonda caught herself.   Was she actually _entertaining_ this?  She stopped laughing.  "Explain what you mean," she said abruptly.  "Right now."

Sam hesitated.

Rhonda raised her eyebrows.  “Well?”

Sam hesitated.  Then said, “You know…when you were askin Dean why he asked you out?  Earlier?”

Rhonda looked at him.  “Yeah?”

“Well,” Sam said, “he told you it was because he figured he’d ‘better get to it.’  Right?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  Looked at him.  “So?”

“And did you ask him how _I’d_ feel about that?” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said after a moment.  “I did.”

“And I bet he said I’d just back off,” Sam said.  “Because he told me to.”  Looked at Rhonda “Didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Rhonda said after a moment.  “He did.”

“Cause _he_ figured…and _you_ figured…that once he’d shown both of us he was interested in you, you’d be off limits to me,” Sam said.  “Right?”

Rhonda looked at Sam silently.

“Once he put his stamp on you,” Sam continued.  “Claimed you for himself.”

“Sam...I wouldn’t put it exactly like _that,”_ Rhonda said.

“Why?” Sam asked.  “Is that offensive?”

“Um… _yeah,”_ Rhonda said.  “It is.  And anyway Dean asked me out, he didn’t _claim_ me.”

Sam shrugged.  “Whatever.  My point is, once he asked you out and you accepted, you were off limits.  To me.”

Rhonda looked at him.  “So where are you going with this?” she asked.

Sam smiled at her.  “You never thought about _why_?”

Rhonda stared   “Why what?”

“Why Dean was so eager to put you off limits,” Sam said.  “All of a sudden.”

Rhonda was silent. 

“I get interested in you ‘n’ then he makes his move,” Sam said.  “You didn’t wonder about that?”

“I did,” Rhonda replied slowly.  “And when I asked him about it Dean said you’d come after me cause _you_ were making a point.  Like you were doing something cause _he_ wasn’t.  And that kind of woke him up.  That he better make his move while he had the chance.” 

“No,”Sam said.  “You’ve got it backwards.  I decided to come after you because of _you._   Not because of Dean.  Because I could see you weren’t playin around with me anymore…or…I mean you _were,_ but it was for _real._   And when Dean _saw_ it was for real…us likin each other that is…he stepped in.”

Rhonda stared at him.  She wasn’t feeling so entertained now.  “So you’re saying…that _Dean_ isn’t for real?  About this?”

Sam looked at her.  “I _also_ just said that you ‘n’ me _liked_ each other,” he said.  “You didn’t hear that part, huh?”

Rhonda stared back.  She was _not_ playing Sam’s game, here.  “Explain what you said about Dean,” she said.

“Okay,” Sam said after a moment.  “Dean’s for real.  He just _thinks_ he isn’t.”

 _“…What?”_   Rhonda said.  She was upset now, she couldn’t help it.

“Dean’s bein protective,” Sam said.  “He doesn’t want me gettin involved with you cause you’re a lot older than me and I’m not ready for that kinda _mature_ relationship yet-“

 _“…Excuse_ me?” Rhonda snapped.  _“What_ kind of relationship?”

“You know,” Sam said.  He looked at her. “A sexy one.  Like where we were headin.  Cause you _like me_ Rhonda, you know you do.”

“In your _dreams!”_ Rhonda snapped.

Sam grinned at her.  “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve had a dream or too.  Anyway…Dean figured he’d ask you out, ‘n’ head _that_ off at the pass.”

“Oh really,” Rhonda said.  “So you’re saying that Dean was just… _sacrificing_ himself…to keep me _away_ from you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, like this was obvious.  Then he looked down.  Raised his eyebrows. 

She was tapping her foot again, Rhonda realized.  She stopped.  “Are you _done?”_ she said.  “Cause maybe I want you to wait out on the porch after all!”

“Not quite yet,” Sam said.  “I wasn’t finished explainin that’s just what Dean _thinks.”_

“Well you’d better make your point _now,”_ Rhonda said.  “Before _I_ kick your ass!”

Sam blinked at her.  “You wouldn’t do that,” he said.

“Try me,” Rhonda said through her teeth.  “Now make your point!”

“Well,” Sam said, “Dean’s thinkin is that he’ll ask you out, you’ll lose interest in me, _I’ll_ back off and then things will go along like that for awhile, until maybe you get sick of him for bein…you know…an asshole…and break up with him.  Or maybe not, maybe you’ll stay interested and put up with him just askin you out every so often.  Stringin you along until I’m finished school and he ‘n’ I are outa here.  Either way, he’s buyin time.”

“You _serious?”_   Rhonda said.   She heard her own voice rising, helplessly.

Sam shrugged.   “Yeah,” he said, like what he’d said hadn’t just flayed her raw.  “I’m serious.  That’s his plan.  Dean’s handlin you.”

Dean, his eyes on her.  Gazing at her without any kind of flirtatiousness, a quiet, direct gaze.

_(I had fun tonight)_

_(Me too)_

“I don’t believe you,”  Rhonda said painfully.

“No, I know,” Sam said.  “And you’re right not to.”

“What?” Rhonda said.  _“Why!”_

“Because that’s just what he _thinks_ he’s thinkin,” Sam said.  “It’s not what he’s _really_ thinkin.  Not what he really means.  Not really.”

This was too much.  Rhonda was about to fly apart.

“Sam,” she said.  “You’d better explain yourself _now._   Tell me what’s really going on here.  Or so help me, I-“

Sam held up a hand.  “Okay, okay,” he said.  “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Rhonda yelled at him.  “You comin in here – scarin me – sayin these awful things about Dean to me-“

“I’m _sorry,_ okay?” Sam said.  “I can’t help it if it’s the truth.  And you deserve the truth.  Don’t you want to hear it?”  And he looked at her.

Rhonda, breathing.  "Go on," she said, after a moment.

“What Dean’s _really_ doin,” Sam said, “although _he_ hasn’t figured this out yet…is tryin to get to know you.  One on one.  Check you out, make sure you’re all right for me to…you know…go with.  Cause he knows I’m serious about this.  Goin with you, I mean.  And how better to check you out…that way…than to go with you, himself?”

Oh.  Really.

 _“Sam,”_ Rhonda said.  And she wasn’t furious now.  Or upset.  Because she was just too flabbergasted (and it was unreasonable to be upset when you _knew_ that this conversation wasn’t actually happening.  Because conversations like these just _didn’t_ happen.  Not for real.  Not between sane people).  “You’re crazy.  You can’t be _serious.”_

“Oh I’m serious,” Sam said.  “Dead serious.”  And he _did_ look serious now.  “If you ‘n’ me are gonna be a thing, Dean’s gonna be there too.”

A thing.  Her and Sam.  Wow, it’s not like Sam wasn’t taking a few things for _granted,_ here.  And also-

 _“Why?”_ Rhonda asked.  “Why’s it so important that Dean be involved?”

“To make sure nothin goes wrong,” Sam said.  He shrugged.  “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but Dean’s a little controllin.”

Controlling.  That was one word for it.  But... _seriously?_

“Sam,” Rhonda said.  Took another breath.  “Why would Dean want to control _that?”_ she asked.

“Cause he’s looked after me my whole life,” Sam said.  “And if I’m gonna be with a girl…be with _you_ I mean……like I _told_ him…he’s gonna want to look after that too.”

Rhonda looked at him.  She opened her mouth.  Closed it.

“And also,” Sam said.  And his voice was different now.  “He’s been waitin for me.  It’s my time now, but it’s also his.”

“…What?” Rhonda asked.

“Dean’s never been with a girl either,” Sam said.  “He didn’t want to do that…go there I mean…without me bein on board with it.  So now it’s his time, too.”

“…What!” Rhonda said.  “You mean Dean’s a _virgin?”_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  He shrugged.  “In a manner of speakin.”  Looked at her.  “So you understand, he’s not just checkin you out for me.  He’s also checkin you out for himself.”

She was actually _hearing_ this.

“Well Dean can goddamn go check out somebody else!” Rhonda said.  “After what you’ve just told me, neither of you are getting within ten feet of me!”

“I’m already within ten feet of you,” Sam replied.  Reasonably.

“That’s a manner of _speaking,_ genius,” Rhonda said.  “Like _you_ said.  And _Dean._   God, what an _asshole!_   And I _thought_ that, right from the beginning.  But then I thought was wrong.  But as it turns out, I was right, all along!”

“Rhonda,” Sam said, “don’t be mad at Dean, c’mon.  He’s just doin the best he can.  He’s not the only one who c’n be nerve-wrackin.  I c’n be a lot to handle too, you know.”

“No shit,” Rhonda muttered.

Sam laughed.  “C’mon,” he said.  “It’ll be fun.  You know it.”

Rhonda didn’t dignify this with an answer.   “I don’t understand,” she said.  “Why would Dean wait…on something like that…for _you?_  He- he could have any girl he wanted, I’m sure girls have been throwing themselves at him for _years!_   And I mean, he had _me,_ until this little conversation!  So I don’t get it.  And also…why would he even _consider_ sharing his girlfriend with his younger brother?   I mean, who _does_ that?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Dean wants me to be happy,” Sam said.  And he wasn’t laughing now.  “And he knew I’d be _real_ unhappy if he…went there…without me.  So he waited because he knew it was important to me.”

“But why is _that_ so important to you?” Rhonda asked him.  “What’s up with you, Sam?”

Sam looked at her.  “We’re brothers,” he said.  In a reasonable tone.  Like this was an _explanation._   “We share everythin.  And if Dean’s gonna have a girl…that way…then so’m I.”

“…The _same_ girl,” Rhonda said. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And then he smiled.  “You’re gonna be _our_ girlfriend.”

“Christ,” Rhonda muttered.

Then she said, “That’s not happening.”

Sam looked philosophical.  “Okay,” he said.  “So when Dean gets here I’ll tell him the whole thing’s off.  And I want to join up with our dad again.  Go back to h- go back to our old routine.  We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

Rhonda was silent.  She stood over Sam, looking at him.

Sam, sitting there, his long legs sprawled out.  Gazing at her calmly, with those bright, weird-colour eyes.

Her colour eyes.  That she’d never seen on anyone else.

Never seeing Sam again.  Or Dean, either.

Sam blinked up at her.  “C’mon Rhonda,” he said coaxingly.  “You like both of us, I know you do.  And you’ll be doin Dean a favour.  He’s been _waiting_ for a girl like you, just like I have.  It’s just that he doesn’t know it, yet.”

This kid.  Unbelievable.

“You’re pretty comfortable speaking for him, aren’t you,” Rhonda said.

“Yup,” Sam said.  Comfortably.

Rhonda sighed.  “Well I want to hear what _Dean_ has to say for himself about all of this,” she said.  “After what you’ve told me, I deserve an explanation from _him,_ too.”

Sam didn’t look so comfortable now.  “Well, I can’t guarantee you’ll get a satisfactory answer,” he said.  “I mean, Dean’s not…um… _articulate_ like me, you know.  He’s more of a-“

The doorbell rang.

Rhonda and Sam looked at each other.  Sam’s mouth opened but he didn’t say anything.  He was pale suddenly, Rhonda noticed.  Not as confident as he had been, a moment ago.

Neither of them moved.

Now a pounding on the door.  “Sammy!” Dean’s voice.  “I know you’re in there!  Open this fuckin door, _NOW!”_   And pounding, again.

Rhonda started to move.   “No!” Sam said.  He held up a hand.  “Wait.”

“I’m letting him in,” Rhonda said.

“No!” Sam said.  He was on his feet.  “Stay here.”

“No!” Rhonda said.  “We’re getting this over with.”   And she moved to leave the room. 

Sam grabbed her.  “No,” he said.  “Hold on.  We need to- ”

“-Get your hands off me!”  Rhonda snapped.  She started to struggle.

“Rhonda, just wait,” Sam said.  He’d grasped both her upper arms in a firm grip.  “Just let me-”

Rhonda was trying to throw him off.  Sam had clamped onto her like a vice.  Christ, this kid was strong.  “Let _go_ of me!” she said.  “I’m letting Dean in!”

Sam didn’t let go of her.  “You don’t need to,” he said.  “He’s in already.”

And sure enough, Rhonda heard the front door open.  “Sammy!” Dean’s voice.

Rhonda was frozen now.  “How’d he _do_ that?”

“Same way I did,” Sam said.   “Lockpick.”  He raised his voice.  “In here, Dean!”  Then he turned back to Rhonda.  Rubbed her arms, reassuringly.  “Sorry about that,” he said.  “It’s just…I didn’t want you leavin me by myself.”

Rhonda looked at him.  “What-“

But Dean was in the room.  Rhonda stared at him, her breath leaving her body.  Dean’s face was bone white, his eyes a blazing green.  He looked terrifying.

He didn’t look back at her.  His attention was focused on Sam.  He came to a halt, just inside the living room.  Stood there, eyes on his brother as Sam stared back, still holding onto Rhonda’s arms. 

Then Dean said, “You little _bitch!_   You are in _so much trouble!”_  

Rhonda gasped. 

Because of what had just come out of Dean’s mouth.  Those harsh words, addressed unbelievably to his _brother._

_(You little bitch)_

What was going on here?  Rhonda was breathing hard.  She was holding onto Sam too, she realized, her hands suddenly on Sam’s waist.

Dean’s eyes on this.  He started stalking towards them.

“Dean,” Sam said.  “Just wait a minute-“

 _“-Shut up!”_ Dean snapped.  “You’re not sayin another word!  Not until we’re home and you’ve had what’s comin to you!”  And he reached out and grabbed Sam.  By the ear.

_“Ow!”_

“Let’s go,” Dean said.  And he turned to leave, pulling Sam behind him.

 _“Dean!  Ow!”_   Sam’s hands were on his brother’s fingers, trying to get him to release his grip. 

Dean pulling on him, roughly.

“Hey!” Rhonda said.  “Wait a minute.”  She was still holding onto Sam’s waist.

Dean looked at her for the first time.  “Sorry Rhonda,” he said briefly.  “But this doesn’t concern you.  This is between me ‘n’ Sammy.  Now let go of him.”  And then turning cold eyes on Sam.  “C’mon,” he said.  “I’m not tellin you again.”  And he yanked hard on Sam’s ear.

“Ow!” Sam yelped.  But then he dug his heels in.  “No!” he said.  “I’m not goin!” 

“Dean!” Rhonda said.  “Stop it!”  She was holding onto Sam’s waist hard now.  Holding him in the room.

Dean ignored her.

“Yes you are,” he said to Sam grimly.  And then as Rhonda watched, Dean moved, faster than she could see, and _turned_ Sam, yanking him out of Rhonda’s grip and twisting Sam’s arm up sharply behind his back. 

 _“OW!”_ Sam yelped.

“Let’s go,” Dean said.  “And don’t be strugglin if you want to be usin that arm for the next month.”  And he started to march Sam away.

“Dean!” Sam said.  “C’mon!”  And then he looked at Rhonda.

Pleadingly.

Those eyes.

_(I didn’t want you leavin me by myself)_

_“Dean!”_   Rhonda snapped. 

Dean looked at her.

“Stop it!” she said.  “Let him go!”

Dean looked at her.  He didn’t let Sam go. 

“Let him go, Dean,” Rhonda said.  “Or I’m calling the police.”

Dean’s eyes were cold.  “I _told_ you, this doesn’t concern you,” he said.

“Yes it does,” Rhonda said.  “And we need to talk about it.  So just hang on a sec.  Calm down.  Okay?”

Dean staring at her.  After a moment Rhonda saw him take a breath.  “So talk,” he said briefly.

Now _Rhonda_ took a breath.  “This whole mess…it all happened because of me,” she said.  “Sam explained it all.  What’s really going on here.”

Dean looked at her.  If anything, he looked more terrifying.  “Just _what_ did Sam explain?” he asked.  And Rhonda saw him tighten his grip on his brother.

“Ow— _ow_ Dean!” Sam whimpered.  “You’re hurtin me!”

“Let him _go,_ Dean!” Rhonda said.  “Sam explained it all.  About the two of you, waiting for the right _girl_ to come along.  This little _pact_ of yours.”

Now Dean looked confused.  “What?”

“This whole evening,” Rhonda said.  “Our _date…”_   And she was shaking now, she couldn’t help it.  “It was just a _scam…_ it wasn’t a date, you were setting me up!”

“I was _what?”_ Dean said.  And he looked genuinely baffled.

“You were setting me up!”  Rhonda yelled.  And she was so angry suddenly, a red tide of rage, taking her over.  “You were just making _moves,_ to keep me away from Sam!  Or setting me up to _fuck_ him, I don’t know which!”

Dean looked appalled.  He dropped Sam’s arm.  Looked at him.  “Sammy?” he asked.  “What’s she talking about?”

Sam was rubbing his shoulder.  “I told her,” he said.  “That she was the girl I’d picked.  For both of us.”

Dean’s mouth opened.  _“What!”_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I like her, I told you that.”  And his voice was reasonable again.

“And I _told_ you, to drop that,” Dean said dangerously.  “She’s not interested in you Sammy, that was a misunderstandin.  She made that pretty clear.  So stay away from her! _”_

“Well why don’t we ask _Rhonda_ about that,” Sam said.  “She can speak for herself.”  And he looked at her.  “Rhonda…” he said, “are you interested in me?”

Rhonda stared at him.  Both brothers were watching her now.  She didn’t say anything.

“Rhonda?” Sam asked her again.  “Are you?”

Rhonda glanced at Dean helplessly.  He was staring at her.  Intently.

_(Dean’s eyes on her, intent, like she’d wanted, for months)._

But now this.

But those green eyes, staring at her.

But now Sam’s eyes on her too.

And the memory of Sam's eyes on her, playful.  Smiling.  And Rhonda, smiling back at him.

_(And then Sam's eyes on her._

_Watching her, golden)._

And Dean watching this, watching Rhonda hesitate, his own gaze stark now.

“Yes,” Rhonda said after a moment.  She didn't look at Sam as she said this.  Just at Dean.  She was shaking.  

Dean, staring.  Silent.

“See?” Sam said to Dean.  “I _told_ you.”

Dean, silent.  But then he grasped Sam’s arm again.  “C’mon,” he said.  “We’re gettin outa here.  Right now.”  And his voice was frighteningly final.

“No!” Sam said.

“No!” Rhonda said.

“Just wait!” Sam said to Dean.  “We c’n work this out.  C’mon Dean.  We c’n _share_ her.”

Both Rhonda and Dean looked at him.  

 _“Sam!”_ they said.

Sam looked back.  “What?” he said.  “It’ll be _fine,_ don’t you see?  C’mon Dean, you _know_ I’ve been wantin to do this.  And now you won’t have to hold yourself back anymore because of me either.”  He gestured to Rhonda.  “This is the right girl.  You c’n see that, plain as I can.  It’ll be good.”

“Rhonda,” Dean said.  “I apologize for my brother.  Sammy, let’s go.”  And he grasped Sam again.  Started to haul him out of the room.

Sam looked at Rhonda.  “Rhonda,” he said.  And he sounded really young now.  Like a scared little kid.  “Please.  Tell him I’m right.”

Rhonda stared at him.  Those pleading puppy eyes, fixed on her.  Blinking.  Deep as pools. 

Sam.

Sam, what an aggravating little brat.  Calling her the _right girl._  To _share_ , uh huh.  Sam _deserved_ to be in deep shit.  But somehow she couldn’t let Sam be hauled out of here and have whatever Dean had planned for him happen.  She opened her mouth to tell Dean that.

But then paused.

Because now she saw something else.  Something else in Sam’s eyes.  A golden glint there, buried deep down in that puppy dog gaze. 

Way down deep.

But glinting there in those eyes, like sunlight on gold coins.  Like buried treasure, suddenly revealed.    

Sparkling.

And beckoning to her, golden. 

Beckoning.

_Sam._

“Dean,” Rhonda said.  “Stop.”

Dean ignored her.

“Dean!” Rhonda said sharply.  “Stop!  I mean it!”

Dean stopped.  Stared at her.

But Rhonda’s eyes were on Sam now.  “You’re a manipulative little shit,” she said to him. 

And Sam blinking at her, all innocence suddenly.  Right.

Rhonda looked at this then back to Dean.  “Sam’s right,” she said.

“What!” Dean said.  He stood frozen, like he’d just been stunned by a blow.

Rhonda shrugged.  “Sam’s right,” she said.

Sam, staring at her.  He started to smile.

Rhonda looked at this.  She refused to smile back.  “Sam’s right,” she said again.  “I _am_ up for it.”

“Up for _what?”_ Dean said.  

“Taking you both on,” Rhonda said.

The brothers, staring at her.  Motionless, quiet.  Sam looked serious again.

Rhonda sighed.  Looked at Sam.  And then at Dean. 

These two.  Sheesh.

But then she opened her arms.  Gestured to Sam.  “Well,” she said.  “Come here.  What are you waiting for?”

After a moment, Sam came over to her.   Put his arms around her.  Dean let him go, his arms falling to his sides.  He watched his brother without moving, staring at Sam and Rhonda, now embracing.  He didn’t say anything.

Rhonda leaned up and put her lips on Sam’s cheek.  She had to stand on tiptoe, to do it.  “What about you?” she asked him.  “You up for it?”

Sam was smiling.  He’d leaned into the touch of her lips.  He reached out and stroked her hair.  Put his fingers into it.  Rhonda closed her eyes.  “Up for what?” Sam asked, and his voice was smooth now, murmuring.

“Taking me on,” Rhonda said.  “Your older woman.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  His lips were in her hair, nuzzling.  “I really am.”

Rhonda opened her eyes.  And looked over Sam’s shoulder at Dean, still standing there silently, staring at them.

Staring at them, his eyes raw.

Rhonda sighed again. 

But then smiled.  Smiled helplessly at herself, caught up so helplessly, so completely in this moment, so completely absurd, with her arms around Sam and his arms around her, Sam hugging her and Rhonda with one hand on his back, clasping Sam to herself, tenderly. 

She held out her other hand.

“C’mon,” she said to Dean.  And heard her voice, soft now.  “You too.”


	42. Chapter 42

Dean stood frozen, staring at his brother.

Sam, with his arms around _Rhonda,_ nuzzling her, murmuring to her.

And Dean, caught up so helplessly in this moment, unfolding right in front of him, his worst fear coming to life right in front of his eyes, the sight of Sam holding somebody else, gazing at them smiling, giving to them what belonged to _Dean_ , that up close, sinuous attention, that dark whiskey voice murmuring, that voice that would rub over Dean’s skin, over his mind, so darkly awesome this hidden side of Sam, but not hidden anymore, not for Dean’s eyes only.

Displayed, on view, presented to somebody else, to this sleek, dark girl with the weird colour eyes and wild tumble of hair who was holding his brother so affectionately.

Like it was her right, to do that.

His worst nightmare right there, in front of him.

And Dean, helpless.

And Sam’s voice, dark in his mind.

_(I want you there.  I want you watching)._

And Sam getting what he wanted.  Like always.  Because he _knew_ he could play Dean like a fiddle.  Because he knew. 

That this was actually _not_ Dean’s worst nightmare.

_(What can you do?  Other than leave me?)_

No options.  No escape, no path away from this moment that wouldn’t involve the thing that would break Dean down, finally and utterly.

Leaving Sam.  Dean thought about that, as he stood there.  Just turning his back on his brother and walking away.  Or _killing_ Sam, and this girl too, for putting Dean through this.  That thought crossed Dean’s mind too, no lie. 

But either way Sam lost to him.

And _that_ was the thing that would break Dean down.  _That_ was his worst nightmare.

And Sam _knew_ that, the little bitch.

So Dean stood there, helplessly.  Watching his brother. 

Doing what he’d told Dean he was going to do.  Exactly.  In spite of Dean telling him not to. 

Arguing with him not to.  Bribing him. 

Pleading with Sam _not to._

Three nights ago. 

Him and Sam driving home, silent in the dark car, Dean climbing into the car silently after setting the date with Rhonda for Saturday, Sam sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him.

And now driving, Dean’s eyes focused grimly on the road.

Sam, eventually asking, “When’s the date?”

“Saturday,” Dean replied briefly.

“Lookin forward to it?”  Sam asked.

“Sure,” Dean said.  “Why not?  _Any_ guy would.”

“She’s hot alright,” Sam agreed mildly.

“Yup,” Dean said.  And driving.

“That was supposed to be _my_ date,” Sam said.  Still mildly.

“Nope,” Dean said.  Through his teeth.  “It wasn’t.  She was never gonna date you Sammy, don’t kid yourself.”

“I’m not,” Sam said.  “I’m pretty clear on what’s goin on.  It’s _you_ who’s the kidder here.  If you think you c’n stop what’s gonna happen.  At this point.”

“What’s gonna happen,” Dean said, “Is that _I’m_ goin out with her.  Like she wants.  And _you’re_ gonna back off.  Stop botherin her and torturin _me._ Like you’ve been doin.  On _purpose.”_  

“I haven’t been torturin you,” Sam said.  “I’d never do that, c’mon Dean.”

Dean laughed shortly.  “Sure,” he said.   “Whatever.  But you’re stoppin either way.  If _I’m_ datin that girl Sammy, she’s not gonna care about you anymore.  You’ll just make things awkward for her ‘n’ she won’t appreciate that.  And she’s _countin_ on me now to tell you to back off.   So back off!”

“No,” Sam said.

Dean turned to stare at him.  Sam’s face, a shadow in the dark car, his expression hidden.

“Jesus Dean!” Sam yelped.  “Don’t get us killed!”

Dean turned back to the road, pulling their car away from the centre line.  He was breathing harshly.  “You’re backin off Sammy!” he said.  “Or so help me I’ll- “

“-You’re not gonna do anythin,” Sam said.  “Except fuck me good when we get home.  Like you’ve been _doin,_ last few days.”  And his voice was laid back now.  Relaxed.

Dean, listening to this.  Sam’s casual voice, Sam leaning back in his seat, his legs stretched out.  Waiting, relaxed, for them to get home, for Dean to throw him up against a wall as soon as the door was closed behind them, Dean smashing his lips down on Sam’s, shoving his cock against Sam’s cock and Sam moaning now, writhing against him, and Dean taking him by the shoulders, throwing Sam down on the bed, Sam laughing and then Dean’s mouth on his, Dean muttering _(Shut up, bitch)_ between kisses _,_ and tearing at his brother’s clothes, ripping them off with Sam helping him, Sam’s mouth raised to Dean’s, and him and Sam kissing, kissing now, frantically, and then Dean’s hands on his own jeans, freeing himself, the lube, and then pushing Sam’s legs up _(Up over your head, bitch),_ and plunging into him, into the hot, tight centre of Sam with Sam keening now, clutching at Dean, trembling, and then the two of them rocking, _grinding_ against each other, Sam mewling and Dean’s face buried in his brother’s throat, harsh breaths against his brother’s skin and whispering _(Sammy, Sammy)_ as he came, as Sam came, Sam’s hot come wet against Dean’s belly and Dean releasing into Sam’s tight, hot, beautiful ass, that ass that was just his, Sammy just his, his little brother, his bitch, his baby girl, his _wife_ finally, Sam _thinking_ he could play the man with a girl like Rhonda, flirting with her right under Dean’s nose, tying Dean’s guts into knots but ending up writhing under Dean on this bed finally, because at the end of the night Sam was getting fucked like a girl, because that’s what he _was_ finally, Dean’s girl, Dean’s bitchy little wife, wearing Dean’s ring and putting his legs up into the air on Dean’s say. 

And now the two of them lying on the bed, still joined, Dean collapsed heavily on Sam, his breath slowing, sweat cooling on his skin.  And Sam’s hands on his back, stroking him.  Whispering to him, “I love you, I love you Dean.”  And Dean whispering back, “If you love me then stop bein a bitch.” 

And Sam, whispering, “I can’t.  I need to do this.”

And Dean.  “Do _what?_   _Hurt_ me?”

And Sam.  “No.  You don’t need to get hurt.  Please Dean, try seein things my way.”

And Dean, pulling out of him sharply, Sam yelping.  But then folding himself around Sam, his arms and legs around Sam, clutching Sam to him like he would when they were both small, when Dean would hold Sam to him like a teddy bear.  And Dean whispering, painfully.  “You gotta stop, Sammy.  You’re killin me.”  And Sam turning to him, putting his arms around him, his legs, tangling himself up in Dean, those long warm limbs tangled around him, that silky hair in Dean’s mouth.  And murmuring, “I’m doin this Dean, I’m sorry, you’re gonna just have to accept it.”  And Dean answering, agonized now.  “But _why?”_ And Sam saying, “Cause I’m more than this.”  And taking Dean’s hand, putting it between his legs, drawing Dean’s fingers onto the hot, moist circle of his asshole.  Whispering, “I’m more than this,” but then writhing against Dean, kissing him, and Dean’s fingers rubbing Sam’s asshole now, circling it, pushing into it, Sam moaning and Dean hard again, unbelievably, and then turning his brother over, pushing his face into the bed, and taking Sam from behind, fucking him again, fucking him _hard,_ slamming into him, Sam keening, and then the two of them coming, together like they almost always did, the pleasure breaking over both of them with the force of a tsunami and then collapsing on the bed, still holding each other, too exhausted now to talk and not wanting to, anymore.

Just holding each other for the rest of the night, silent. 

Sam silent finally, curled into Dean, his head resting on Dean’s chest.

Dean’s baby again.  For a little while.

But the next day, the same thing. 

And in the days after that, the same thing, Dean watching in agonized silence as Sam grew up right in front of him, Sam speaking to Rhonda (who was _hot_ sure, but Dean hadn’t taken her any more seriously than any of the other chicks who’d hang around him, hoping…until _now,_ that is) with the confidence of a man, and putting his _hands_ on her, casually, comfortably, right under Dean’s eyes, and Dean having to hold himself back, every time he saw this.

From doing something he couldn’t take back.  Like murder.

So Dean looking on helplessly, dying inside.  And only able to do _one thing_ to Sam, in response to this little game of his because Dean couldn’t stop Sam from playing it. 

And he couldn’t leave him.  And he couldn’t kill him. 

But he _could_ fuck his brother blind.  And remind Sam, forcefully, at the end of the night, of who he really belonged to.   

And Sam seemed okay with being reminded.  Turning to Dean, his eyes bright, as bright as earlier when he’d been smiling at Rhonda, and giving himself up, surrendering himself to Dean, moaning. 

The little _bitch._

And now Sam sprawled back relaxed in his seat.  Referring to this.  With calm anticipation, while Dean struggled to breathe.

Dean saw a narrow road coming up to their right, a dark track between winter fields, glinting palely under the moon.  He turned, abruptly. 

Sam looked at him “What-“

Dean drove in a little further and parked.  Turned to Sam.  “You so eager to get fucked?” he said.  “You’re gettin fucked right now.  Get in the back.”

Sam looking at him, his eyes wide.  “But Dean it’s-“

Dean’s hand over his mouth.  “Shut up,” he said.  “Now get in the back.”

Sam staring at him, eyes glinting in the dark.  Then he silently unbuckled his seatbelt.  Clambered awkwardly over the front seat and landed on the back seat, on his stomach.  Stared up at Dean, who was watching this. 

“Pull’em down,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Sam said.  “It’s cold!”

Dean snorted.  “Pull’em down Sammy,” he said.  “’N’ you whine about it, everythin else is comin off too.  You c’n ride the rest of the way home buck naked.”

Sam looking at him.  Then he unbuckled his belt.  Pulled his jeans and shorts down, moving awkwardly.  The pale gleam of his butt.  Dean nodded.  “Now up on your knees,” he said.  After a moment Sam got up on his knees, pushing his butt up into the air.  “That’s good,” Dean said.  He was hard now, his cock pushing painfully against his jeans.  “Stay like that.”  He got out of the car.

“Dean,” Sam said.  Dean had walked around to the back.  Opened the back passenger side door, taking in the sight.  His brother’s butt, those round white cheeks, turned up for him.  “Yeah?”  He was climbing into the back seat, pulling the door shut behind him.  Crammed up suddenly against Sam, the smooth bare cheeks.  Dean put a hand on one of those cheeks, rubbing it.  Sam was trembling.  “Dean,” he said.  “We don’t have any lube.”

“Guess I’ll just have to use my tongue then,” Dean said.  “Spread ‘em Sammy.”  And Sam arching his back, spreading his butt cheeks obediently.  Dean crouched down, contorting himself in that tight space, uncomfortable (but he was motivated though).  He pushed his face against the crack of Sam’s ass, the warm soft skin there that Dean was so familiar with now, the smell and taste and texture of Sam, and starting laving Sam with his tongue. 

 _“Oh!”_   Sam trembling.  And Dean nuzzling him, nipping at him, getting right in there. 

_“Oh!  Oh!”_

Dean straightened up.  “I think we’re good to go.”  And unbuckling, unzipping himself, kneeling up behind Sam, one hand on his brother’s hip to steady him, and then pushing in, pushing into Sam’s little asshole, moistened but still tight, not as slippery and accommodating as it usually was and Sam protesting. 

 _“Ouch!_   _Jesus,_ Dean!”  Sam wriggling.

Dean clamped both hands onto him.  “Stay still.”  And pushing in.

_“OW!”_

“Stop complainin,” Dean said.  He was speaking with difficulty, that delicious friction, god.  “You deserve this, and you know it.”  And pushing, most of the way in now, and Sam’s butt bobbing under him.  Dean paused.  Then gave Sam a smooth, careful thrust.

_“Ohhh!”_

Dean smiled.  “Feels good, huh Sammy?  You just had to wait for it.  I know how to fuck you.”  And fucking Sam now with an even, driving rhythm, every thrust deeper.

_“Oh, Oh, Oh!”_

“That’s it.”  Dean breathless now, whispering, the pleasure starting to rise.  Reaching around under Sam to grasp his cock, the hard warm length of Sam’s cock, pulsing in Dean’s hand.

_“Dean!  Jesus!  Shit!”_

And Dean laughing.  “No swearin at me Sammy or you’re gettin a swat.”  And then his thumb, gliding smooth over the slick head of Sam’s cock.

_“Oh!”_

And Dean pounding into him, hard now, not laughing anymore.  “So what – what do you say to me Sammy?” he asked.  “When you’re gettin royally fucked like this?”

Sam moaning.

Dean, thrusting into him _hard._   “Sam!  What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Sam gasped.

“Yeah…” Dean said.  And thrusting.  “That’s a start.  But I’m expectin you to be a little more specific.”  And pulling on Sam again.  Thumbing.

_“Oh!”_

“Go on,” Dean said.  And he was _rocking_ into Sam now, right in there, the smooth tight walls of his brother’s body enveloping him, gripping him, so sweet.  Dean clenched his teeth.  Sweet, but he wasn’t coming, just yet.

“Thank you daddy,” Sam gasped.  And then moaned as Dean rewarded this, his whole hand enveloping Sam’s cock now, pulling on it, thumbing it, _working it._

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  And thrusting.  “That’s better.  And _why’re_ you so thankful, Sammy?”  And speaking with difficulty, the pleasure imminent, Sam’s hot ass convulsing tight around him.  But he wanted Sam to answer this.  This was important.

Sam, gasping.  His butt, his hips, his smooth muscular back, gleaming now with sweat, laid out beneath Dean’s eyes.  That mane of brown hair, tossing.  Dean reached out with his other hand and grabbed a hank of that hair.  Yanked Sam’s head back.  Sam moaned.  Dean smiled.  Sam was a sweet ride, alright. 

“Sam?” Dean asked.  “Answer me.  Why do you say _thank you_ when I fuck you?”

“Because I’m yours,” Sam gasped.  Dean pinched the tip of his cock.  Sam mewled.  “Say that again?” Dean said.

“I’m yours, daddy,” Sam moaned.  And moaned again as Dean rewarded him.

“My what? _”_ Dean asked.  And pulling on Sam, _hard_ now, thrusting into him, with Sam rocking his butt back against Dean’s cock, Sam moaning, trembling, but chasing that pleasure too, the two of them rocking together with the smooth motion they’d perfected.

“My _what?”_ Dean whispered again.  And thrusting into Sam _hard._

_“OH!”_

“Sammy?  Answer me.”  And another thrust.

“Your _bitch,”_ Sam gasped.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “True.  But don’t stop there.  Whose _ring_ you wearin, Sammy? _”_   And thumbing him, rocking against him, _fucking him._  

Sam moaned.

Dean leaned up, close to Sam’s ear.  Whispered again.  “Sam…whose ring you wearin?”

“Yours,” Sam whispered back.  And then moaned as Dean rocked into him, _deep._

“And what does _that_ make you?” Dean whispered.  And he was shuddering now, he couldn’t help it.  “Tell your daddy.”

“Your wife,” Sam whispered.  And his voice, broken suddenly.

 _“Yeah,”_ Dean said.  Shuddering.  And coming, finally, into Sam’s beautiful, trembling ass.  “My little bitch wife,” he whispered, “Who gets fucked on my say.”  And Sam coming, moaning, spurting into Dean’s hand.

And later, driving on again.   Sam sitting silently in the passenger seat, not sprawling back quite so comfortably now.

Dean driving.  He was smiling grimly.  “So here’s how it’s gonna be,” he said to his silent brother.  “I’m takin Rhonda out.  Like she wants.  And she’s gonna lose interest in you Sammy, you c’n depend on it.  So you’re backin off.  No more flirtin with her ‘n’ turnin my hair gray.  Tryin to prove some sort of _point.”_

“Uh huh,” Sam said, after a moment.  “So what point was that?”

“That you c’n be _me,_ _that’s_ been your point,” Dean said.  _“That’s_ been your little message, these past few days.  I get it, okay?   But guess what Sam?  You’re _not_ me.  And that’s not what we need here, anyway.”

Sam quiet.  Then he said, “Maybe that’s _exactly_ what we need.” 

Then added, his voice different now.  “Maybe that’s what… _you_ need.”

And Dean, listening to this.

To Sam’s smooth, dark, whiskey voice, with its effect on Dean’s whole body. 

Sam, using that voice whenever he wanted something.  But not asking for it.  When Sam used that voice, he wasn’t asking.  That voice, seductive, suggestive, but more than that too.  Sam always pretty clear, whenever he used that voice.  That voice was a statement.  A message.

_(Maybe that’s what… you need)_

And the sudden memory of Sam, suddenly holding Dean down, casually dirty fighting him when Dean struggled (and who’d taught Sam how to do _that,_ Jesus).  And Sam staring down at Dean with those changeable eyes, dark now, and kissing Dean, _humping_ him, and then Sam’s hand wriggling down between Dean’s legs, finding him, one long finger slipping into Dean’s ass, curling into him and then the sudden sharp pleasure, radiating.  And Dean, helpless under this suddenly.

Trembling.  Just waiting for Sam to make his next move.

_(I’m gonna fuck you, big brother)_

And now Dean felt it again, that pleasure, blooming suddenly low down in his belly and then shooting through his veins like fire. 

He swallowed.  Gripped the steering wheel.  Stared out at the dark road.

“Sam,” he said eventually.  “That’s not gonna happen.”

“What’s not gonna happen?”  Sam asked.  Innocently.

Like he didn’t have a clue.  Uh huh.  Sure.

“Whatever you’re tryin to achieve with this… _campaign_ of yours,” Dean said.  “Tryin somehow to be _me._   We don’t need another _me._   We need _me_ ‘n’ we need _you._   So you just concentrate on bein _you.”_

A pause.  And then Sam.

“You’ve got it backwards,” Sam said.  “I don’t want to be you.  I _want_ to be me.  But I’m not just a kid anymore and I’m not _actually_ a _chick._   Okay?  I’m a guy _too,_ Dean.” 

And then he was silent.  But Dean felt Sam’s eyes on him, watching him.  Dean stared grimly at the road.  He didn’t look back.

“Why do you have such a problem with that?” Sam asked, eventually.  “I want to know.”

_I want to know._

God, that was so _familiar._   Sam, right from when he’d been a little kid, always relentless in his pursuit of an answer.  To find it, isolate it and pin it down like a bug.  Relentless.  With _Dean,_ of course, big brother, Sam’s go-to source for answers to questions he couldn’t look up in books or ask anyone else (you know, like answers to questions that were _very_ _fucking awkward and difficult)_.  And Sam never too concerned about driving Dean to the edge of a cliff with his tongue. 

Well, not today.  Sam not getting his question answered today.  Not after all the shit he’d been forcing down Dean’s throat lately.

“What I have a _problem_ with,” Dean said, “is that…after I specifically _asked_ you _not_ to, you go ahead and mess around with _Rhonda!”_  And he continued.  “Who I _work_ with…who’s _years_ too old for you…and who’s just messin with _you,_ just havin her little fun…the two of you actin like goddamn sluts for each other right under my nose…it’s sickenin…and _her_ I c’n maybe understand cause she doesn’t have the whole picture.”  Dean heard his voice rising.  “But _you?”_ he said.  “You _know_ how I feel about you Sammy!  You know!  You _know!_   And you _wonder_ why I have a problem with-“  Dean couldn’t continue.  His chest was heaving.

Sam, quiet.  But then he said, quietly, “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Jesus.

Sam’s _question._  

Forget the _other_ things Dean had just said.  Sam’s _question_ , _that_ was important.  Forget Dean’s feelings here, that he’d just laid out beneath Sam’s feet like a rug.

Dean was struggling to breathe.   The road, unwinding black in front of him.  He was having trouble focusing on it.  But he didn’t want to pull over and continue this horrible conversation with the car parked (and risk Sam getting mad and jumping out, taking off, Sam a faster runner than Dean now and Dean wasn’t one hundred percent sure of catching him, if Sam took off into the night). 

“Sam,” Dean said, after a moment.  Aiming for calm.  “Can we please just stop?  Just stop.  Just stop for a minute.  Okay?  I’m just askin you to—“

“-Stop _,”_ Sam interrupted.  “I heard you the first time.  Just… _stop._   Right?  Just stop.  Bein _me._   _Just stop!_   Right where I am!  And stay your kid brother.  Your hot little bitch.  Your _wife.”_ And his voice was bitter.

Dean’s chest, hurting. 

“No, that’s- well, yeah, that’s – look,” he said.  And tried again.  “Those things –why do you sound so _mad_ about them Sammy?”

“Because they’re not enough,” Sam said.  “Not anymore.”

A pressure, like a fist, clenched around Dean’s heart. 

He couldn’t.  He couldn’t, anymore. 

“Sam,” he said eventually.   “Look.”  And speaking with difficulty.  “You’re gonna…you’re gonna have to find a way…to make it so you’re happy…that works for- for you…and for me.  Okay?  For you _and_ for me.  You gotta, Sammy.  Because this is killin me.”

And he waited.  A silence, while Sam absorbed this.

“Okay,” Sam said eventually.  “So how do I do that?”  And he sounded _interested_ now.  Like this was an _intellectual_ question.

“I don’t know!”  Dean said.  “I _don’t_ know, Sammy!  I’ve been _tryin,_ okay?  It’s been like, my _mission_ in life, you bein happy and I’d thought that finally we’d…’n’ _now_ you’re tellin me…”  Dean couldn’t continue.  “Look,” he said after a moment.  “You’re smart.   You figure it out.”

Silence.

 _“Me_ figure it out,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.

“How do you think _I_ can?” Sam asked.  “If you can’t?”

“Because _you’re_ the one with the problem,” Dean said.  “You’ve been real clear about that.  _I_ thought things were fine.  Finally.”

“Well maybe _that’s_ your problem,” Sam replied.  Thoughtfully.  “Maybe _that’s_ your answer to my question.  Right there.”

Dean didn’t answer.  He couldn’t.  Couldn’t speak.

“What do you think?” Sam asked.

In his _reasonable_ voice.  Not bitter, not upset anymore.  Just reasonable.  Businesslike.  Just moving the conversation forward. 

Jesus.

Arguing with Sam.

You couldn’t win.  Why did Dean even try?

“Sam,” Dean said.  And he heard his voice, thin now, balanced on the edge of that cliff at last.  “Look.  I can’t do this anymore.  You say you can’t figure it out?  Fine.  So I need you to just stop tryin, for now.  Just give it a rest.  Take a break.  Okay?”

“Why should I do that?” Sam asked.

Dean’s heart, hurting.  “Cause I’m askin,” he said simply.  “Sammy.  I’m just askin.  Okay?” 

And then _he_ stopped.  Speaking.  Set his lips.  And concentrated on the dark road, on getting him and Sam home.  In silence, this conversation over.

Silence.   Silence was golden, alright.  Whoever’d said that knew what they were talking about.

“O _kay_ …” Sam said slowly.

Dean sighed.

“So if I’m gonna ‘figure things out’ here…” Sam said.  “For _both_ of us… _”_   He paused. 

Then said, thoughtfully, “Let’s say I stop goin after Rhonda.”

_Yes._

_Please and thank you, God._

“Yeah?” Dean said.  He kept his voice neutral. 

“So I don’t want _you_ goin after her _either,_ then,” Sam said.  “If _I_ can’t.”

Dean sighed.  “Sam, if I stand her up _now,_ it’s gonna be impossible to work with her.   I’ve gotta take her out like I promised.   At least once, okay?  Just a short date.”

“On Saturday,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“And what about _me?”_ Sam said.  “Am I just supposed to stay home?”

“Well…yeah,” Dean said.

“Well maybe _I_ want a date,” Sam said.  And he sounded pissed now.  Dean glanced over.  His brother was pouting.  Sammy’s bitch face, in full swing.

Dean smiled.  With relief, actually.  Sam being bitchy was a lot less worrisome than Sam being _reasonable._

“I’ll take you out on your own date,” he said.  “Okay?  _Next_ Saturday.  We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“As long as it doesn’t expose us,” Sam said.  “To hunters.  Or _society.”_

Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “Well…yeah.”

“Like a… _secret_ date,” Sam said.  And he sounded reasonable again.

Oh, Jesus.

“Yes,” Dean said shortly. 

“So what’m I supposed to do _this_ Saturday?”  Sam said.  “While you’re out on a _normal_ date, gettin Rhonda’s hopes up.”

“You’re gonna wait for me,” Dean said.  “Like always.  And you’re not gonna give me a hard time about it, Sammy.  Cause you _know_ I’m not gonna do anythin but take her out, be a little sweet, maybe fool around a little, like she wants.  Give her somethin, it’ll calm things down.”

Sam quiet.  “You’re so sure that’s what she wants?” he asked, after a moment.

Dean shrugged.  “Yeah.  Why’d she be any different from any of the others?  And by the time we’re done, she’ll be under control.  Won’t be makin any more trouble.  For either of us.”

Sam didn’t answer.  Then said, “So I wait for you.  Like all the other times.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s what you do.”  Then added, “And don’t you go feelin sorry for yourself, Sammy.  You _caused_ this whole thing by startin with her in the first place.  I wasn’t plannin on datin _anybody_ while we were here and I didn’t have to put on a show, for Dad.”

“Well you didn’t _have_ to ask her out,” Sam said.  “Seems to me things were calmed down already, she’d already told me to get lost.  _You’re_ the one that got them going again.  Why’d you do that?”

Dean thought about this.  Sam was right, he realized.

“I dunno,” he said slowly.  “Maybe I just wanted to teach you a lesson.  You’d seriously pissed me off.  I guess I should’ve thought the better of it before jumpin the gun.”

“Or maybe you just wanted to ask her out,” Sam said.  And he sounded quite calm.

“…Why would you say _that?_ ” Dean asked.

“Cause _I_ wanted to,” Sam said.

“I don’t get you,” Dean said.

“Never mind,” Sam said.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Dean didn’t like that.  Somehow Sam dropping this line of inquiry didn’t seem characteristic of him.  But as for the reasons he’d asked Rhonda out…Dean wasn’t prepared to go into those in any further detail.  Because Sam was just too goddamn sharp.

Because there _was_ something Dean hadn’t shared with Sam, and he wasn’t planning to, anytime soon.

He was looking forward to Saturday. 

Not because he _liked_ Rhonda, of course.  _Rhonda,_ who’d been

_(touching Sam, putting herself next to him, those slim long legs, that ass, that curvy body, that astonishing face with those eyes, gazing at Sam smiling, Rhonda leaning curving herself over Sam while Dean fumed)_

acting like such a bitch…and acting that way just to get Dean going of course…acting that way on _purpose._

But Rhonda wasn’t boring.  And she’d been challenging him, since Dean had first met her.  Challenging him, then messing with his little brother…causing all this trouble. 

So putting Rhonda in her place…settling her down, once and for all…showing her indisputably who was _really_ in charge here…that would be satisfying, all on its own. 

So Sam was right, Dean guessed.  Sort of.  Dean _did_ want to go out with her.  For his own reasons.  But he wasn’t about to tell Sam that. 

I mean, Dean still had to live with him.

“And what if I don’t?” Sam asked.  

Sam, with another question.  What a surprise.

“Don’t what?” Dean replied, sighing.

“Don’t wait for you,” Sam said.  “What if I go out by myself…while you’re out on your _date_.”

What?  “No,” Dean said shortly.  “Forget it Sammy.  You’re stayin home and bein…and bein good.”

“The good little wife,” Sam said.

“That’s right,” Dean said.

“I dunno,” Sam said thoughtfully.  “Maybe I should take my _free time_ as an opportunity to…do some research.   _Figure things out._   Like you said.”

That didn’t sound good.

“What does _that_ mean?” Dean asked him.  Dangerously.

“Maybe…me bein happy…means figuring _myself_ out,” Sam said.  _“All_ of me that is, not just the parts _you’re_ so fond of.”

Dean looked at him.  Wordlessly.

Sam smiled.

“And I’m not gonna do that by just sittin at home,” he said.

_Jesus._

Dean turned his eyes back to the road, with an effort.  He was going to be calm, here.  “What, you mean like you’re plannin to go out to find someone to _fuck?”_ Dean said.  And heard his voice, rising, in spite of himself.

“I didn’t say _that,”_ Sam said.  In a mild tone.  Mildly indignant, like it was _Dean_ who was being unreasonable here.  Like it was _Dean_  implying something. 

Right. 

Forget calm.  Dean was _furious._   _“No,_ Sammy!” he snapped.  “Forget it.  No ‘research.’  You’re stayin home!”

Sam looking at him.  Blinking.  “But _you_ said-“

“-I didn’t say anythin like that and you know it!” Dean shouted at him.  “And in case you didn’t hear me the first time, I asked you to figure out a solution that makes us _both_ happy.  And I don’t know how in hell you’d think that doin what _you’re_ implyin would make me goddamn happy!  No, I think you’re just takin the opportunity to be a bitch.  Again.  And it’s not funny anymore.  So just fuckin _drop it!_   _Now!”_

“You can’t stop me from goin out,” Sam said.  And now his voice was cold.  “If I want.  Why _should_ I stay home while you’re out, _enjoyin_ yourself?”

Dean had had enough.

“You’re stayin home Sammy or you’re gettin it,” he said.  And his voice was just as cold.  “And I mean _really_ gettin it and that means a whippin.  With my belt.”

Sam, silent.  Then said, “You promised you’d never do that again.”

“Yeah, well _you_ promised _me_ you’d do what I say!”  Dean snapped.   “And when has _that_ ever happened!”

“I’ve _done_ what you said!”  Sam said.  And he didn’t sound cold now.  Now his voice was hot with rage.  “For _years!_ I’ve held up my end of our deal for _years,_ Dean!  Ever since the _beginning!”_

Uh huh.  Saint Sammy.  Dean wasn’t buying it.

“Not really,” Dean said.  “And so what?  You think there’s an expiry date?  _You_ gave yourself to _me_ , Sammy!Remember?You came after _me,_ you made yourself _mine!_   _You_ promised _me!_   And I’ve looked after you, I’ve done everythin in my power to give you…everythin!  And what have _you_ done?  Other than bitch and complain and make me miserable…drive me crazy…”

“I got rid of Phil for you,” Sam said coldly. 

Dean took a breath.   “Yeah,” he said eventually.  “You did.  But I wouldn’t have even _been_ in that situation if it hadn’t been for you.  I’d’ve been hunting, with Dad.”

“And prostitutin yourself with all those pervs at the roadhouses,” Sam said bitterly.  “You’d’ve _also_ been doin that with Dad.”

“You shut the fuck up Sammy!” Dean said.  “I never did that ‘n’ you know it!  And that’s not the point.  The point is, I’ve kept my promises to you.  And you haven’t.  You’ve promised me…everythin…always gettin my hopes up…gettin me countin on you…and then you just _break_ whatever goddamn promise you want _whenever_ it goddamn suits you like a goddamn  _bitch!”_   He was shouting.  He turned and faced Sam.  Glared at him.

Sam glaring back, his eyes cold.  “I never promised you I’d just sit at home… _forever,”_  he said.  “You seem to think it’s _okay_ for you go out datin girls…go danglin yourself in front of other men…”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“…like that’s some judgement call only _you_ get to make…” Sam continued.

“I don’t-“ Dean started to say-

“- And _I’m_ not allowed to make that same call!” Sam said, speaking over him.  “Well that’s not true.  So _fuck you, Dean!_ I’ll go out if I want!”

Dean, silent.  Choosing his words carefully.

“To… _figure yourself out_ ,” he said, eventually.  “Do _research.”_

“Well, yeah,” Sam said.  “So?”

“So you tell me,” Dean said.  “If you met someone…while you were out there… _researchin_ …that you had the chance to stick your dick into…would you?”

Sam was silent.

“Sam,” Dean said.  And his voice was thin now.  On the edge of that cliff again.  “Would you?”

Sam didn’t answer.  He turned his face away.  Looked out the window.

Dean waited.

Silence.

Dean took a breath.  Then spoke calmly.  Reasonably.  “If you…if you did that…you know what that would do to me, Sammy,” he said. 

Silence.

“Sam,” Dean said.  Calmly.  “You know.  What that would do to me.  You're not... _seriously_ considerin that.  Are you?”

“I told you I wanted _you,”_ Sam said.  He was still staring out the window.  “And _you_ turned me down.  You turned me down!  And do you _know…_ what that did…to _me?”_  

And his voice was raw.  Sam rarely sounded like that.

And then Dean remembered.  Sam’s voice, raw.

_(I’ve always wanted you.  I’ve been willin to do…anything…)_

Dean glanced at him.  Sam’s averted face.

But then Sam turned around and looked back at him.  Expectantly.

And Dean saw.  That Sam was waiting for Dean to answer _his_ question now, like _Sam’s_ question had somehow taken first place in line.

Sam, not bothering to answer _Dean’s_ question.  Because he was focusing on other things.  More important things.  Like a question of his own.

A classic Sammy tactic.

And Dean, getting sucked in _again._   Jesus, why didn’t he ever learn?  You didn’t win an argument with Sam.  The best you could do was just bulldoze through.

Dean fixed his eyes on the road again.  He wasn’t going to look at Sam anymore.  Not until they were home.  He was just going to say _this._   And then disengage.

“Sam,” he said tightly, “if you go out…after I specifically asked you _not_ to…I’m gonna read that as you lookin to cheat on me.  Not to tease me, not to torture me, not to make some goddamn _point._   Not to _figure yourself out,_ like some fuckin college student.  You go out…after _this_ conversation…I’m gonna read that expressly as you lookin for an opportunity to cheat on me.  And if you do _that_ …Sammy…you’re gettin the whippin of a lifetime.  _And_ you’re gonna take it.”

“Oh,” Sam said, after a moment.  “Really.  And why would I do that?”

Dean, looking out into the black night.  He wasn’t angry anymore.  Just tired.  And sad.  Him and Sam, driving along this dark road arguing, the dark night pressing in around them.  The two of them enclosed by darkness.  Still.

“Because you love me,” Dean said quietly.  “You _love_ me Sam, and you - you _know_ that…doin something like that…would hurt me.  In just about the worst way possible.  You _know_ that.  So if you go ahead and hurt me like that… _knowin_ that...Sam…you’ll take your whippin.   Bare assed.  Cause fair’s fair.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Let me get this,” Sam said after a pause.  And his voice was like ice.  “I _love you_ so I let you…do that to me.  Because _I_ hurt _you_ so bad.  Because fair’s fair.”

“Yup,” Dean said tiredly.  “That’s pretty much it.”

“I could hurt you worse,” Sam said.  Matter-of-factly.

Dean didn’t answer.  He was stone cold, suddenly.  Numb.

“I could leave,” Sam said.  “Disappear.  Die.  _That’s_ the worst thing I could do.  And that would hurt you _real_ bad.  Have you thought about _that?_   Dean?” 

Dean closed his eyes.  When he opened them again he couldn’t see for a moment.  Black road, black sky, all black.  A black void, spinning.

 _“Dean!”_   Sam shrieked.  _“You’re goin off the road!”_

Dean blinked.  Black.  But then the headlights dully shining, the moon glinting on the fields.  The world, surrounding him again.  He pulled their car back from where it had swerved onto the shoulder.  They fishtailed wildly but then straightened out.  Dean eased his foot carefully off the gas.  He was conscious of Sam sitting beside him, breathing hard.

“Yeah,” Dean answered Sam eventually.  “That’s the worst thing.  And I _have_ thought about it because you bring it up, every goddamn time.  So yeah.  You want to completely take away my reason for living Sammy…you could leave.  Like you threaten to, every time we have a fight.  Threaten to take my whole life away.”

Sam was silent.  Dean saw the turnoff to the dirt road leading to their shack.  He turned.  The bumpy road, the fields and then the dark woods, looming black and close on either side.  Sam beside him, silent.  They pulled up in front of the shack and Dean turned the ignition off.  They sat there.

“So what do we do now?” Sam asked, eventually.

Dean’s chest was hurting.  “We go inside,” he said.  “I pour myself a drink.  You brush your teeth, get into bed.  I’ll join you in a bit.”

“And then what?” Sam asked.  He spoke flatly, without emotion.  Like he just didn’t care, anymore.

Dean, listening to this.

“’N’ then I hold you,” he said, painfully.   He stopped, pressed his lips together.  Then spoke again.  “I hold you, Sammy, like I have for practically every night of my life.”

Sam was silent. 

Dean sat there beside his brother, his hands on the steering wheel.  He was sitting there until Sam answered him.  Responded somehow.  And if he didn’t, Dean was going to sit here until he was dead.

A hand, laid on top of his.  Gently undoing Dean’s fingers.  “C’mere,” Sam said.  He took Dean’s hand.

He held Dean’s hand, quietly.  “I won’t cheat on you,” Sam said.  Dean bowed his head. 

“But I really like Rhonda,” Sam continued, after a moment.  Conversationally, like _this_ was what they’d _really_ been talking about, all along.  “I won’t lie.  She got to me, Dean.”

“You’ll get over her,” Dean said briefly.

“But I want…I want to know what it’s like,” Sam said.  “To…be a…to be a normal _guy_ with someone.  You know?  Not just a chick.  You can’t hold that against me.  I mean, you told me that _yourself,_ that _you_ wanted to be a regular guy, sometimes.  Don’t you remember?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sighing.  “I remember.”  He felt very tired.  “And no, I don’t hold it against you.”

“Then-“

“-Sam,” Dean said.  “I’m just not ready for you to do that.  Okay?”

“With you?” Sam asked him after a moment.  “Is that what you mean?”

“No!” Dean said.  “Well I mean, yeah, not with me.  But not with anyone else, either.”

“But why _not?”_ Sam asked.  “I’m a _guy,_ Dean.”

“Not to me, you’re not,” Dean said. 

And he realized, as he said this, that this was in fact, true.  Sam had _never_ been a guy to him.  A guy.  A dude.  Sam just didn’t fit into Dean’s definition of that word.

Dean suddenly remembered something their dad had said to him, one time when they’d been discussing Sam.

_(…so I guess…for your brother…I should just… re-define my understandin of what it means to be a man to include…girly and moody and bitchy)_

Dean’s lips twitched.  Well, their dad had a point.

“What’re you laughin at?” Sam asked him.  “This is serious.”  He sounded indignant.

Dean straightened his face out.  “I know,” he said.  And then he looked at Sam, thoughtfully.  Looked down at their joined hands.  Sam’s left hand holding Dean’s right hand, Sam’s hand with Dean’s ring, the silver glittering coldly.

Sam couldn’t just turn into some guy.  Some dude.  No.  Not with what they were doing.  Because that would…limit him, somehow.  Take something away.  And turn what he and Dean were doing into something else.

“Are you ever gonna see me that way?” Sam asked.  Dean looked at him.  “What way?” he asked cautiously.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Like a _guy,”_ he said.  “A _man._   You know, like you or Dad.  Like Bobby.  A regular guy.”

And their dad’s words, rising up again in Dean’s mind.

_(Nothin’s ever come easy with that kid ‘n’ I guess now that includes re-thinkin your most basic notions of character)_

“I dunno,” Dean said after a moment.  “It’s hard for me to think of you that way, Sammy.  I just…I don’t know.”

Sam, looking at him.

“I like you the way you are,” Dean said.  And he ran his finger over the silver ring.

Sam was silent.  But then he said, “I want more.”  And looked at Dean. 

That look, flaying Dean raw.  “More than me?” Dean asked.  And heard his own voice, so wounded and pathetic.  He winced.

“I didn’t say that,” Sam said.  And now he sounded calm, again.  And gazed at Dean, calmly.  Blinked at him.

Jesus.

Sam, that mouth, that brain, those eyes.  It wasn’t fair.

“Okay,” Dean said, finally.  Sighed.  “Look.  Fine.  I give up.  You’re so eager to join the club we’ll find you some girl to fuck.  Okay, Sammy?   You win, okay?  But _later._   When you’re older.  I mean, Jesus Sam, you’re only fifteen.  What’s the rush?  I mean, _I_ wasn’t all fired up to do…that…when _I_ was fifteen.”

Sam snorted.  “Yes you were,” he said.  “Dad didn’t give you those condoms for no reason.  He might be an asshole but he’s not an idiot.”

“How’d you know Dad gave me condoms?” Dean asked, surprised.  He’d never told Sam that.

Sam snorted again.  “Cause _I’m_ not an idiot, either,” he said.  “Point is, Dean, you were thinkin about it.  And the only reason you never got around to fuckin a girl was because of me.  And that’s the only reason you’re not fuckin one _now._   Cause you get to fuck me, instead.”

Dean considered this.  Okay, so Sam had a point.  But still.

“Well, forget it anyway, Sammy,” Dean said.  “You’re still too young.  Be patient.  You’ve got time.”

“I’m a lot older than _you_ were at my age,” Sam said.  “What we’ve been doin Dean…I’ve grown up fast.”

_(I’ve grown up fast)_

Dean’s chest was hurting again.  “That may be,” he replied slowly.  “And maybe you _think_ you’re ready.  But the fact is Sammy… _I’m_ not ready.”

Sam looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.  “I’ll let you know when I feel okay about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said after a moment.  “But then I want us to be clear on something.”

Oh really?  What a shock.

“What’s that?”  Dean said, sighing.

Sam, looking at him.  Then he said,

“That you won’t take that step either.  Not until _I_ feel okay with it.”

“Um…” Dean said.

“Because Dean…” Sam continued, “I _wouldn’t_ be okay with it.  If you just went ahead.  Without me.”  And he looked at Dean again.

Dean felt himself getting red.  Which wasn’t fair at _all._   “Well I _haven’t,_ Sammy!” he said.  “You know that!  Don’t look at me like that!”

And that was true.   Oh, Dean had had his opportunities (lots of them).   But he’d never pursued them to their final conclusion.  The condoms donated by his dad had stayed in his wallet (until he’d thrown them out that is, because they were old). 

“I know,” Sam said.  “But we’ve never talked about it before.  Not specifically.  Not all on its own.  So I want your promise.”  And he looked at Dean again.

“Fine,” Dean said.  “I promise.”

Sam, looking at him.  “Promise _what?”_

Dean sighed.  “I promise I won’t…go there…until you’re okay with it.”

Sam nodded.  Then said.  “And _that_ means…that you’re waitin for me.Okay?”  And looked at him.

Dean sighed.  “Fine,” he said.  “If I have to wait for you, I’ll…wait.”

Sam nodded.  “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Dean said.  And felt himself smiling now, reluctantly.  _Sam,_ Jesus.  “But you have to promise _me_ something,” he said.

“What?” Sam asked.

“That you’ll be faithful too,” Dean said.  And he wasn’t smiling now.  “I don’t want to ever have to worry about that.  If I’m waitin for you, you gotta wait for me.  No more threatenin me.  No more _teasin._   Not with Rhonda or with anybody else. _”_

Sam, considering this.  Dean waited.  He felt tense again.

“Faithful,” Sam said eventually.  “That’s a big word, Dean.  I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be a snot,” Dean said.  “And this is a big conversation.  I want you to promise me, Sammy.”

“I promise,” Sam said.

Dean was quiet.  He felt relief seeping into him, finally.  He sat there in the dark car, holding Sam’s hand.  “Let’s go inside,” he said eventually.  “I’m tired.”

“There’s one other thing,” Sam said.  

Dean groaned.  _“What?”_

“We still need to be clear on what we’re doin about Rhonda,” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “What _I’m_ doin,” he said.  _“_ And I guess after _this_ conversation we’ve established that I’m not doin much.  And _you’re_ not doin anything.  Is _that_ clear enough for you?  Now let’s go inside Sammy.  I’m ready for bed.”

Sam didn’t answer.  But then he undid his seatbelt and got out of the car.  Walked towards the little shack.  Dean followed him. 

But later, tucked up in Dean’s arms.  “So…about Rhonda…” Sam said.

Dean groaned.  “Yeah?” he said, after a moment.  Sam’s warm silky back, pressed up against him.  Dean’s face was in Sam’s hair.  He was sleepy.

“You still goin out with her on Saturday?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Can’t really get outa that, not without creatin more drama than I’m prepared to deal with.  Hopefully she’ll end up thinkin I’m a complete jerk ‘n’ drop me.  She pretty much thinks that already.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I know.”

Dean laughed.  “Well,” he said, “I guess she’s not wrong.”

“You don’t _have_ to be a jerk,” Sam said.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I mean…you c’n date her,” Sam said.  “For real.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Dean said.

“Because _I_ like her,” Sam said, quietly.  “And I think _you_ like her.  You didn’t _have_ to ask her out, remember?”

Dean was silent.

“And…I mean…if we _both_ like her…” Sam said.  And then he turned and peered at Dean over his shoulder.  Blinked at him. 

Dean looked at this.  _“No,”_ he said definitely.  “You’re not talkin me around to that Sammy, so forget it.  She’s too old for you and you c’n tell she’s a player.  She’s already proved that, with all that shit she’s pulled with you.  You’re not gettin sucked in any further.”

“I’m already sucked in,” Sam said.  “She got me interested.  And now _you’re_ datin her.”

“Not like _that,”_ Dean said, exasperated.  “I’ve made up my mind Sammy, she’s not the girl for you.  Okay?   So stop bein interested, she’s off limits to you as of _now.”_

Sam looked at him.  Dean sighed.  “Stop lookin so hard done to,” he said.  “If you’re so set on fuckin a girl we’ll revisit this conversation in maybe…let’s say…a couple of years.  Okay?  But until then, drop it.”

“Well that means _you’re_ gonna hold off _too,_ Dean,” Sam said.  Added, “’N’ that’s gonna make you _twenty-two._   That’s pretty old to be a _virgin,_ nowadays.”

The little snark.  Dean smacked Sam on his ass.  Not lightly.

 _“Ow!”_   Sam was rubbing his ass.   He glared at Dean over his shoulder.   Those dagger eyes.  Like a cat, ready to spit.  Dean smiled.  Sam, all catlike and slinky in their bed.  Grouchy right now, but Dean could fix that.

“I’m not a virgin,” Dean said.  “I’ve got _you_ to fuck, like you pointed out.  _You’re_ my girl, Sammy.”  And then he nuzzled Sam on the neck, right under his brother’s ear, that soft skin.

Sam made a little sound, halfway between annoyance and pleasure.  Dean smiled.  He loved making Sammy make noises.  He kissed Sam’s neck again.  Sam turned away, turning his back on Dean.   Dean ignored this, burrowed his face into Sam’s silky nape.  Kissed him there.  “Don’t be mad,” he said.  “I’m gonna make sure you’re one satisfied girl.”  And he was rubbing Sam’s butt now, moving Sam’s hand out of the way and rubbing those smooth cheeks, luxuriously.

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam said.  But he didn’t sound mad anymore.  And now he pushed his butt into Dean’s hand.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Rubbing.  “I know.”  And rubbing.  And then his other hand on Sam’s chest now, finding a nipple.  Circling it gently with his thumb, that soft satiny skin.  Sam made a low hum, deep in his throat.  “Turn over Sammy,” Dean murmured.  His silky slinky _satiny_ little brother, god.  “We’re gonna take care of that cock of yours you’re so eager to stick into somethin.”

 _“God_ you’re a jerk,” Sam said.  But he turned over obligingly.  Dean pulled the covers away and went up on one elbow to look at him.  Sam’s cock was hard, standing up against his flat belly.  Dean smiled.  “My little girl has one great big fat cock,” he murmured.  Sam gazed up at him.  His lips parted.  And then Dean was on him, sucking that cock back, _hard._

 _“Ohhh!”_   Sam was moaning, arching up off the bed.

Dean, feeding on him.  Sam’s cock, it was so long and thick now and Dean so familiar with that thick, throbbing length, crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw out, painfully.  He heard Sam gasping, and then his brother thrust his cock up hard into Dean’s mouth, and Dean took it, gobbling, messy, his saliva starting to run down over Sam’s cock, the delicate skin glistening now but Dean relentless, moving his head back and forth, not stopping, and scraping his tongue over Sam’s cock, running it up to the head, tickling the head of Sam’s cock, slipping the tip of his tongue into the tip of Sam’s cock, seeking out the little hole there, salty with juice.

 _“Oh!”_   Sam mewling.  His hands were clutched in Dean’s hair.  And Dean, closing his mouth tight and wet over Sam’s cock, _milking_ it now, and his brother shuddering uncontrollably, moaning, gasping Dean’s name and then coming, releasing hard into Dean’s mouth and Dean sucking him down, sucking him dry.

Dean lay collapsed on Sam, his head resting on Sam’s belly, his cheek pressed against the warm, damp skin.  Exhausted, his jaw aching.  Sam’s cock, soft now, lying up close near Dean’s nose.  Sam’s fingers, still in his hair.

“How was that?” Dean murmured.  He put a hand on Sam’s thigh.

“Good,” Sam murmured back. 

“Just good?”  Dean asked.

“No,” Sam said.  “Freakin awesome, like always.”

Dean smiled.  “I take good care of you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. 

“That cock’s not gettin neglected,” Dean said.  “So you shouldn’t have any cause for complainin Sammy.”

“I’m not, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“Well that’s good then,” Dean said.  He was observing Sam’s cock absently.  Trailed his fingers over it, running his thumb over the fine, damp skin.

Sam winced.  “I’m a little sensitive right now, daddy.”

Dean grinned.  “Okay little girl.  We’ll give you a rest.”  Then he pulled himself up, pulled Sam into his arms again.  Arranged the covers over them both.  Wrapped his arms around his brother, a warm bundle now.  Put his face into Sam’s hair again.  Kissed him.  “I love you,” Dean murmured.

“I love you too,” Sam said.

“I’m gonna do that to you again tomorrow,” Dean said.  “And Saturday.  And Sunday.  And any day you want.  Because I love your cock Sam.”

“You _do?”_   Sam asked.

Dean smiled.  Sam sounded like a little kid.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was smiling.  “I love it just as much as the rest of you.  So don’t you worry.  I’m gonna take good care of it.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  “Okay.”  A pause.  “That’s good to know.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He rolled his eyes.  “Good to know.  It’s not like you don’t _already_ know.  Jesus Sam, you’re somethin else.  Look up ‘high maintenance’ in the dictionary ‘n’ your picture comes up.  In _colour.”_

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  He’d snuggled himself comfortably against Dean’s body.  “Guess you’re right.”

Dean smiled.  His own cock, pressed enjoyably into Sam’s butt.  He loved lying with his brother in his arms like this.  “So are we cool now?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Sam said.

“I _mean_ …you’re droppin this thing,” Dean said.  “No more worryin about girls right now.  We go on like we are for the time being and you stop thinkin about Rhonda or anyone else.  ‘N’ _I_ stop havin a frickin heart attack.  Okay?  We’ll sort it out later.  When you’re older.   Once we figure out what works for both of us.  Okay?”

“There might not be a girl like Rhonda around later,” Sam said. 

“There’s always gonna be some hot girl around,” Dean said.  “World’s full of ‘em.  That’s not my concern.  Stop fixatin on Rhonda, Sammy.”

“I really like her, though,” Sam said.

“Sam, Jesus, stop it,” Dean said.  “The only reason you like Rhonda so much is she’s the only girl who’s ever really paid attention to you.  But the only reason she did was because of me.  _You_ know that, _I_ know that and _she_ knows that.  So drop it, okay?  There will be _another one_.  At some point.”

“When?” Sam asked.

“Couple years,” Dean said.  “Like I said.”

“Is that a promise?”  Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s a promise.”

Sam didn’t answer.  But then he sighed.  Deeply.

Dean’s lips twitched.  Sam, sounding so forlorn.   “Tell you what,” Dean said, generously.  “You’re sixteen in like, less than two months.  Right?” 

“Yeah…”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “So we’ll get you a girl for your eighteenth birthday.  Your official introduction to bein a grown up.”

Sam, silent.  Then said, “A girl?  For a _birthday present?”_

“Yeah.”

“How’re you gonna do _that?”_  Sam asked.

Dean shrugged.  “We’ll find one somewhere.  Pick one up.  Shouldn’t be hard.”

Sam turned around.  Looked at him.  “Jesus, Dean,” he said after a moment.  Then said, “I dunno.  Sounds kinda-”

“-Or we could rent one, maybe,” Dean continued.  “If you want a pro.”

Sam, silent.  Then said, “Dean…um…I dunno.  That’s…no.  I don’t really want that.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.  “Why not?”

“Cause if I’m gonna go with a girl, I’m thinkin more of someone I c’n have fun with,” Sam said.  “You know?  Like laugh with ‘n’ stuff.  Kid around with.  Get comfortable with.  Get to know.”

“Well we’ll get you a funny girl, then,” Dean said.  “A _comfortable_ type.  How hard can that be?  Most girls loosen up anyway, you get a couple of drinks into ‘em.”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam said again.  Then quiet.  Then he said, “Rhonda’s funny.  And I’m comfortable with _her.”_

“Sam, no,” Dean said.  “I already said drop it, about Rhonda.  So don’t piss me off, okay?  We’ll pick this conversation up again in two years.  Okay?  And I promise, if you’re good between now and then, you’ll get your very own hot, fun, _comfortable_ girl.  Poppin out of your eighteenth birthday cake.”

Silence. 

“…Okay,” Sam said, eventually.

Dean sighed with relief.  “Okay,” he said.  He kissed Sam on the forehead.  Then tucked Sam’s head under his chin, his silky little brother’s silky head.  Sam’s light breath, whispering over his skin.  “I love you,” Dean murmured. 

“I love you too,” Sam said.

Dean smiled.  But he wasn’t quite done yet.  “So just so we’re clear, you’re leavin Rhonda alone,” he said.  “Okay?  You’re backin off.” 

Sam looked at him.

Dean looked back.  “You love me you stop upsettin me about that,” he said.  “I need your promise.”  And he waited. 

Sam leaned forward and kissed him on the throat.  Dean closed his eyes.  “Okay Dean,” Sam said softly.  “I promise I won’t bring her up anymore.”  And nuzzling Dean on his throat.  Dean smiled.  “Thank you Sammy,” he said quietly.

And held Sam in his arms.  Started to relax.  Snooze.

He should have known better.

“So if I’m _good…”_ Sam said.  Paused.

Dean groaned.  “Yeah?”

“If I’m _real_ good,” Sam continued, “For the next two years…c’n I have _you_ for my eighteenth birthday present?”

Dean was awake. 

“No!” he snapped. 

“Why not?” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “Why are we goin on about this?” he asked.  “I’ve already said _no._   Like, _several times.”_

“Because I want to know,” Sam said. 

Jesus.  Fine.

“Because I’m not a girl!” Dean snapped.  “And I’m not gonna just roll over and be _your bitch._   Okay?  Ever.”

“But I can be yours,” Sam said.  Reasonably.

Dean set his teeth.  “Yes.” he said.

“That’s not fair,” Sam said.

“I don’t _care,_ Sammy,” Dean said.  “That’s just the way it’s gonna be!”

“But why?”

“Cause I’m the oldest,” Dean said.  Through his teeth.  “’N’ what I say goes.”

“…I can’t believe you’re pullin the older brother thing on this,” Sam said after a moment.

“Don’t see why not,” Dean said.  “Seems reasonable to _me.”_ And his voice was final.  Sam had better pay attention to that.  If he tried to argue he'd find out that Dean was done with _talking,_ here.

But Sam was silent.  Maybe he'd got the message.  Finally.  Hopefully.  Dean closed his eyes again. 

“Well, what if some day _I_ roll you over,” Sam said.  “’N’ take you.” 

And his voice, smooth again. 

Dean’s eyes opened.  Sam’s matter-of-fact voice, speaking those words.  Putting them out there, smooth and dark, into the dark room.

Dean took a breath.  “Like I said before,” he said.  “You c’n try.  But I thought you’d already made this big _point,_ that you weren’t into _rape._ Remember? _”_

“It’s not gonna be rape,” Sam said.

And the sound of that voice, running through Dean’s body. 

Dean shifted uncomfortably.  “Go to sleep,” he said.  “You’ve got school tomorrow.  You want to fuck so much, we’ll get you a girl.  _Later._   For the time bein, you’re _my_ girl.  Includin that cock of yours that I’m takin such good care of.  Now c’mere,” he said, his voice softening.  “Snuggle with me.”  

Sam didn’t answer.  But then he put his arms around Dean’s waist.  Threw a leg over him.  Nestled in close.  Dean closed his eyes.  Sam settling down, finally.  He kissed Sam on his forehead again. “That’s my baby,” he murmured.  Sam didn’t answer.

But the two of them holding each other, silent, peaceful finally.  Dean started to drift off.

It wasn’t until he was on the edge of sleep that he realized.  That he hadn’t _exactly_ heard Sam promise that he’d back off from Rhonda.

_(I promise I won’t bring her up anymore)_

_That’s_ what Sam had said.

Dean opened his eyes.  That wasn’t quite right. 

But Sam was asleep now, snoring slightly (so cute) and Dean was exhausted.  He was reluctant to wake Sam up and start this whole other conversation (and Sam the undisputed champion of conversation anyway and Dean just wasn’t up for another round, right now).

So whatever.  Close enough.  Sam had known what Dean meant, it wasn't exactly not clear.  And he’d promised.   So fine.  Dean would leave it at that.  He closed his eyes.  In moments, he was sleeping. 

And Sam kept his word.  Over the next two days Rhonda’s name never came up.  And Dean forgot about his own moment of uncertainty.

And anyway, Sam had settled down.  He didn’t give Dean any more grief about Saturday, or threaten to go out and do things on his own.  He was keeping to their status quo, their longstanding agreement that Dean would go out into the world to do what he had to do, and Sam would wait at home.  And be good.  Be _there._   And give Dean reason to come back.

Saturday morning, Dean leaving for work.  Sam was staying behind at the shack and he didn’t argue when Dean told him there was no point in him coming into town.  He just kissed Dean sweetly.  “Have a good time,” Sam said.  And then he patted Dean’s ass.  “Don’t do anythin _I_ wouldn’t do.”

“Very funny,” Dean said. 

“I mean it, Dean,” Sam said.  And looked at him.

“I know,” Dean said.  “If I end up foolin around with Rhonda, Sammy, it’s just so’s I c’n establish I’m a jerk.  Not worth her time.  Okay?  It’s not gonna mean anythin other than that.  You understand that, right?”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  He was looking pouty again.  “Sure.  But still.  I expect you to make it up to me Dean.  When you get home.”

Dean grinned.  “Oh I will,” he said.  “I’m gonna make it up to you _real_ good, baby boy.  You just sit tight.  And keep your hands to yourself, you know the drill.” 

Sam smiled.  “Okay daddy,” he replied.  And smiled at Dean.  Sweetly.

Dean stared at him.  Then he grabbed Sam by the arms.  Started kissing him.  “Brat _,”_ he muttered.  His cock, suddenly throbbing painfully.  _Sam._   Shit.  His little brother, deciding to give Dean a little something for the road.  Well, fine.  Dean pushed his cock up between Sam’s legs.  Put his tongue in Sam’s mouth. 

Sam, gasping.  He slid his hands up under Dean’s shirt.  Found Dean’s nipples and pinched them _hard._

Dean yelped.  And Sam pinched his nipples again, twisting them a little bit.  But then released them and ran his thumbs over them, circling, _massaging._   Dean moaned before he could help it.  “Jesus Sam,” he muttered helplessly.  And Sam, kissing him back.  “I’m so hard for you, daddy,” he whispered.  “I’m gonna be sittin here, rock hard…just thinkin about you.”  And pressing himself into Dean, that cock of his, hard as a rock like promised and pressed up between Dean’s legs.  Dean groaned.  Then wrenched himself away.  And stared.  At Sam, his beautiful bitch of a brother with those eyes gazing at him, so innocently now.

Because Sam not too worried about any (immediate) consequences.  Because he _knew_ Dean was on the clock here.  The little bitch.

“You-“ Dean began.

Sam smiled at him.  Sweetly.

“You do that,” Dean said, after a moment.  “You sit there…very still…thinkin about me.”  Sam looked at him.

“Go on,” Dean said.  He was breathing hard.  “You go on and sit down.”

Sam looked at him.  After a moment he went and sat down at the table.  Looked at Dean.

“Hands on the table,” Dean said.  “Where I can see ‘em.”

Sam put his hands on the table.  He folded them together.  Looked at Dean.

“Now you sit there,” Dean said.  “Until-“ he looked at his watch.  “Let’s say one o’clock.  Then you can move.”

“But Dean, that’s like almost three hours!” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.  “I can make it four,” he said.

Sam looked at him.  His eyes were wide now.  Those puppy eyes, blinking.

“After that you c’n get up,” Dean said.   “Take a nap, make yourself somethin to eat, whatever.  But until then, you sit there.”

“Can I get up to use the bathroom?” Sam asked him, after a moment.

“Sure,” Dean said.  “But if you do, you’re addin on half an hour of sittin time.  And no goin outside, either.”

“…You’re bein strict with me daddy,” Sam said.

Dean nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You asked for it, though.  Just be glad I don’t ask you to sit there all day.”

Sam, blinking at him.  “How do you know I’m gonna do what you say?” he asked.  “Maybe I’ll just lie down on the bed as soon as you leave.  And _jerk off.”_

Dean looked back.  “You won’t,” he said.  “Cause I’m trustin you.  Just like you’re trustin me with Rhonda tonight.   Because we’re agreein to _trust each other._   Faithful, right?  Because that’s the only way this works. _”_ He looked at Sam.  “Got it?”

After a moment Sam looked down.  “Okay,” he said.

“What was that?” Dean said.

Sam looked up.  “Yes Dean,” he said.  “I got it.”  And he met Dean’s eyes.

After a moment, Dean nodded.  “Good,” he said.  He walked over to where Sam sat.  Leaned down and kissed him, taking his time.  “When I get home I’m gonna fuck you blind,” he said against Sam’s mouth.  “Make you pay for bein a cock tease.  Got _that?”_   He stood up.  Sam was staring at him, his mouth trembling.  His eyes were hazy.  “Yes daddy,” he whispered.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered.  And kissing Sam again, in spite of himself, that smooth mouth opening so sweetly under his.  Then he wrenched himself away.  Stared down at his brother, conscious of his own hard cock, throbbing.  Sam, gazing up at him, his mouth open, a flash of pink tongue.  But his hands, resting on the table, obediently folded.  Dean smiled.  Okay.  Playing these kinds of games with Sam was fun (in a painful, blue balls kind of way, but at least Sam was being good…in his bitchy, frustrating, _Sammy_ style of being good, but still). 

The vision of Sam, sitting there on Dean’s say, looking impatiently at his watch.  It was satisfying.

Dean reached out and chucked Sam under the chin.  “One o’clock,” he said.  Then left.

And drove into town, smiling.  Thinking about Sam, sitting there obediently, his butt increasingly uncomfortable on that hard chair.  And even after he was allowed to get up, still staying inside, because Dean had told him to.  And his hard cock, as hard as Dean’s right now.  But Sam not touching that cock of his.  Waiting, obediently, for Dean to come home.

It was hard to describe how much Dean _appreciated_ this.  Sammy, his good little wife.  Sam was just so _awesome_ finally.  He made Dean’s life awesome.  In spite of everything.

And Dean would be home with him in just a few hours, just half a shift to get through today, and then a couple of hours with Rhonda.  Dean knew she had a crush on him, it wasn’t exactly not obvious.  And he’d decided how handle that, how to give her a taste of what she was dying for but show her at the same time a version of the fucked up situation she was dealing with.  And if Rhonda had any kind of self esteem, she’d drop him after that.  And if she didn’t…well…that wasn’t _his_ problem was it?  After the trouble she’d caused him, she deserved everything she got.

And then back to Sam.  Putting Sam over the table, that round butt of his in the air.  Smacking that butt a little maybe, getting Sam warmed up for him.  Dean smiled.  He enjoyed giving Sammy play spankings and he knew Sammy liked them too.  And that was okay.  They both knew the difference between play and punishment. 

Dean could hardly wait to get back to him.

But the date with Rhonda turned out differently than Dean expected.

For one thing, she was funny. 

Over pizza, they’d ended up laughing.  A _lot,_ and Dean wasn’t used to laughing like that on dates (most girls too busy gazing at him, gaga, not saying much other than ‘Oh really? Cool!’ but Rhonda seemed to be over that.  You could tell she was pleased to be there with him, but she was comfortable now).  And Dean discovered that she was sarcastic, with a sharp edged sense of humour (a lot like Sam’s actually), and Dean could tell she found his taste in movies questionable.  But she didn’t criticize, she just…asked questions.  In this sincere, curious tone that nonetheless came across as sarcastic as fuck.  And Dean found himself laughing at this.  Appreciating it.

And later, sitting on that cold pier, Dean found himself genuinely curious about her.

I mean, this superhot, black chick growing up in the middle of this white family…in this whitebread corner of the country in the middle of nowhere…it was interesting, okay?  _(And Rhonda half an orphan too, her dad lost to violence, Dean got it.  They didn’t have to go into it, but he got it)._   And you could tell she was in major shape, from just the way she carried herself, even before you heard about the track scholarship.  That body of hers…Dean admired it, and not just because it was curvy.  And then the way she’d been with Sam, infuriating but…kind of a turn-on, if we were being honest here, Rhonda touching Sam like only Dean had ever touched him until now, and then only in secret. 

Seeing someone else putting their hands on his little brother, it was…interesting, even if upsetting.

Yeah, Rhonda was interesting.  And as they spoke on the pier, Dean found himself liking her.  You know, like a person.  In spite of everything.  And before he knew it, he was asking her out again –to _train_ with (and when had he ever offered to do _that_ with anyone, other than Sam).  And just because her story about those assholes chasing her had made him so damn mad, not for any other reason.  They hadn’t even gotten around to the fooling around part of the evening yet.

And when Dean finally kissed her…he realized he wasn’t fooling around. 

Because, you know, by this time he _could_ sort of see what Sam had been going on about, when he said he liked Rhonda.  And Dean suddenly felt unsure of himself, with her (and he’d _never_ been nervous around girls before, not even with Robin). 

But he was still planning on dropping his line on her, the line he’d developed over the years, finding it to be very effective with the girls he'd take out to preserve him and Sam's secret, a line that would stop any further expectations those girls might have of him cold, and without unwanted repercussions either.   That line (usually delivered just after Dean had made the girl come, with his hand still inside her panties), which was,

“I’ve gotta tell you something (insert name here).  You’re a real cool girl, but I gotta be honest…I’m still in love with somebody else.  I got carried away cause you’re so hot but…we can’t do this again.  It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

And then the explanations, that his real love was in another town, separated from Dean through circumstances beyond his control, that he’d been trying to forget her but found that he couldn’t…yada yada yada.

Anyway.  Sure it made him sound like a prick.  But that was sort of the point.  And more to the point, it worked.   A line like that was great camouflage, especially when you delivered it right after some chick had just come all over your hand.  Established your credentials as a dude who knew his way around girls _and_ put you off limits at the same time.  Dean remembered when he’d first told Sammy about his line.

“But don’t they get mad at you?” Sammy had asked him, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “But that’s okay, better them mad at me for _that_ then ignorin them altogether.  Don’t want them thinkin I’m gay.”

“…No,” Sammy said.  In his reasonable voice.  “Can’t have _that.”_

“Or Dad either,” Dean said sharply.  Looked at his brother.  “You understand this is serious,” he said.  “We can’t risk Dad havin any suspicion about me that way.   It’s bad enough he thinks like that about _you._   It’s just too dangerous, Sammy.”

And Sammy, looking down now.  “Yeah,” he said quietly.  “I understand.”  And Dean kissing him.  “Thanks SammySam, you’re the best.”  And Sam, looking up at him.  “So show me…”

So anyway.  Dean had been all set to deliver his famous line to Rhonda.  After they’d necked for awhile (and to be honest, Dean was kind of looking forward to that now).

But somehow it hadn’t worked out that way.  Rhonda had somehow…altered the evening’s agenda, and Dean couldn’t quite figure out how she’d done it. 

But she was a good kisser though, holy shit.  And now Dean was looking forward to _Wednesday_ (and not sure how he was going to explain this to Sam, either).  Sam was not going to be impressed that Dean had volunteered a _second_ date, especially after Dean’s big point that tonight was just to settle things down.  Dean had mulled this over on the drive back without coming to a satisfactory answer.  He eventually decided not to deal with it tonight.  Sam and him had other things to do.  Maybe he’d just unburden himself to Sam tomorrow.  Tell Sam he needed some advice on how to manage this particular chick, because _Rhonda_ was a real livewire (well, Sam had told him that).  Yeah, he’d ask Sam’s advice.  Sam would appreciate this and probably have some ideas.  And hopefully if Dean approached it like that, Sam wouldn’t get (too) mad at him.

Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

So Dean was in a fairly good mood by the time he pulled up to the shack.  Which was dark, but Dean wasn’t too worried about that.  Sam was probably in bed.

But Sam wasn’t there _._  

And then Dean found Sam’s note.

And he remembered, suddenly, as he stood there swearing, Sam’s note clenched in his hand…

That Sam had _never_ promised to leave Rhonda alone.

And now this.

This nightmare.

Dean stood silently, staring at his brother.   Sam had buried his face in Rhonda’s hair.  Rhonda was holding him, gently, like you’d hold a child.  She was _rocking_ Sam even, with this look of preoccupied tenderness on her face.  Her eyes were closed.  And as Dean watched, she started to stroke Sam’s back. 

Dean was dying, here.

Dying.

And then Rhonda looked up.  Looked up at Dean, over Sam’s shoulder, meeting his eyes.  Stared at him, gravely.

With those weird grey-yellow-green eyes that Dean was so familiar with. 

On _Sam,_ that is.

Dean stared back at her, silent.

Rhonda, watching him.  And then Dean saw a rueful expression cross her face.  She sighed. 

But then she _smiled._   Smiled and held out her hand (the one that _wasn’t_ stroking Sam).  “C’mon,” she said softly.  “You too.”

Dean, staring. 

Was she fucking  _serious?_ That was _not_ happening.  The _only_ thing happening was him grabbing Sam and getting the two of them the fuck out of here.

And then they were going back to the shack, getting their stuff and driving out of town.  Fuck this place.

And Sam…Dean would deal with him later.  Once they were safely out of here, a thousand miles away from Rhonda and heading west towards their dad.  Once Dean felt it was safe to bring up the subject, once he was fairly confident it wouldn’t end up with Sam or him in the hospital.   Until then, he was just going to take this in small steps.  First, grab Sam.  Second, grab stuff.  Third, get gas.  And so on. 

And Sam wasn’t going to stand in the way. 

Of Dean, taking those small steps.  Because Sam had to know, this was a non-negotiable matter now, he’d bet on an outcome that hadn’t come through and now he’d have to deal with the consequences.  And Sam would do it.  He’d suck it up.

Because he was still Dean’s brother, when you finally came down to it, past all the disagreements and the threats and the games.  He was still Dean’s brother.  And everything that meant, to both of them.

And when it came down to it, Sam knew that.  He’d accept that. 

Dean would bet his life on it.

Dean stepped forward.  He grabbed Sam’s shoulder.  “Let’s go Sammy,” he said briefly.  “We’re leavin, _now.”_

Sam raised his head and looked back at Dean.  Stared at him.  But didn’t move, didn’t flinch under Dean’s grip (which wasn’t gentle).  But then he let Dean turn him around, dropping one of his arms from where it had been wrapped around Rhonda’s body.  “Dean,” Sam said. 

But then Dean saw how Sam kept his _other_ arm around Rhonda, pulling her close against his side.  And how Rhonda had now put both of _her_ arms tight around Sam’s waist.  Hugging him, almost absentmindedly, with her eyes still on Dean.

Dean, seeing this. 

“Let go of her,” he said harshly.  “We’re leavin, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t answer.  Didn’t move.  He gazed at Dean.

Along with Rhonda who was watching Dean too, not smiling anymore. 

The two of them, both watching Dean with their uncanny eyes, a dark gold now in the dim light of the room. 

Those eyes.  Watching Dean gravely.

And Dean, staring back.  He dropped his hand from Sam’s shoulder. 

“Sam,” he said.  But he spoke without heat now.  The sound of his own voice, tired.  “C’mon,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

Sam didn’t answer.   He just stood there.

With Rhonda by his side, the two of them standing there, unmoving and Dean watching this, paralyzed.   

But then as Dean watched, Sam held out his hand. 

The one that wasn’t clasped around Rhonda’s waist.  Held it out to Dean.

“No,” Sam said.  “You come here.”   

And then he said,

“Please Dean.”

And Dean saw Sam’s eyes on him, soft now.

_(Please Dean)_

Gazing at him.

With that look…like Dean was just _everything_.  That look, Sam’s special look, the way he’d _look_ at Dean, from as far back as Dean could remember.

_(I love you)_

And Dean seeing this, his heart clenching. 

_Sam.  Sammy._

Sam, doing this to him.  While still looking at Dean like that.  With that _look,_ as if he wasn’t inflicting on Dean this terrible pain. 

Dean couldn’t sustain that look suddenly.  He turned his eyes away, glanced over at Rhonda. 

Who was watching him too.  And then Dean saw _her_ expression. 

Her intent, thoughtful, wondering gaze, that Dean remembered suddenly, from the first time he’d met her, from their first exchange that morning he’d been so nervous about going to work for Phil (not that _Phil_ had ever known that, of course).  A look she’d turn on him often, Dean realized, unknowing, unaware that she was doing it.  And Dean aware, but pretending not to see.  A look that neither of them had acknowledged, until now.

Rhonda, gazing at Dean thoughtfully.

_Who are you?_

_(I want to know)_

And Dean staring at her, this girl clasped against his brother’s side, Rhonda leaning against Sam, leaning into him, holding onto him, with her head tucked under Sam’s chin.  And Sam looked older beside her, Dean saw.  Not like his baby brother.  Sam suddenly a young man, with his arm around a woman.   But then as Dean watched, Rhonda straightened up.  And stood straight beside Sam, slim and upright, light on her feet.  But with one hand still on Sam’s waist, resting there lightly now.

But then she held her other hand out.

To Dean and said quietly,

“C’mon.  It’s okay.”

And Dean, seeing this.

Seeing the two of them, his brother and this _girl,_ standing together, so comfortably. 

Standing, gazing at Dean, with

_(those intent, serious eyes, glinting golden)_

their arms around each other, their arms held out to him.

And he felt _pain._   Seeing that.  And he couldn’t move, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything but stare.

At this new _thing,_ suddenly in front of him, this structure created by the linked arms, the shared gaze of his brother and Rhonda, a fortress created by their joined bodies that Dean could only stare at, helplessly.  Helplessly, and painfully conscious of himself, standing alone, staring at this from across an impassable divide, an arm’s length of endless space.

Dean, dying here.  But watching, helplessly.  Staring at these two quiet people, their arms held out to him. 

And now silence, descending.  A heavy stifling silence, covering the three of them like a blanket.  And Dean recognizing it as he stood there.

The silence of pain.  Familiar to him.  Dreaded, but familiar, like a room you dread but know well.  A room you don’t want to enter but that you _do_ enter, voluntarily and repeatedly, because otherwise…the things you might do…if you don't put yourself into that room.  Things that must never happen.

So Dean standing there, frozen.  Unable to move, speak.  Unable to do anything but stare silently, his eyes raw.

Staring at Sam, at Rhonda, into their intent, changeable-colour eyes, and those eyes staring back at him, like two matched sets, except with each gaze containing its own message.  His brother and this girl, both gazing at Dean meaningfully. 

 _Expectantly,_ like he should fucking _see,_ already.  Where they were coming from.  Their unique and important points of view. 

What they wanted.  What they expected of him.

_Please Dean._

And Dean seeing this and the anger rising, in spite of himself.  Those eyes on him, filled with impossible expectations.  It was familiar, okay?  An old story.  But he wasn’t going to react, be angry like he wanted.  Not now, it was too dangerous.

So he stayed silent.  Ignoring those eyes with their messages.

Silence.  Still golden, even when it meant pain.

But he accepted this.  Pain, sure.  But he could still take the next step.  He could manage, if he just focused on one thing at a time. 

He started to step forward, to grab Sam, no more negotiating, and get them both out of here.

But then found that he couldn’t.  

Move.

Because of those four eyes, still staring at him.

Frozen, he was frozen under them.

Because now he-

_saw._

He saw.  Standing there, surrounded by the familiar silence of pain, he _saw._

Something new, something revealed through the combined gaze of those four intent eyes.  Sam's gaze and Rhonda's gaze, reflecting off each other like mirrors, overlaying each other like panes of glass.  And a new thing seen suddenly, in that.  A new message, coming clear.

_(Who are you I want to know/I love you)_

Four eyes on Dean, but one gaze.   One gaze receiving him, taking the sight of him in.  One gaze with one message.

_(I love you and I want to know.  Who you are)_

And Dean suddenly saw Sam. 

 _Saw_ him, standing there, gazing at Dean.  Gazing at Dean with this _new_ look, so different from all the other ones that Dean remembered from him, from over the years.

Sam, with his arm around another.   But suddenly able to look at Dean like that.  With this new look in his eyes.

_(I love you)_

_(and I want to know who you are)_

_(Dean)_

And Dean felt something loosen inside of him.  Deep inside of him, like a wire, unwinding.   

And he stood there, not breathing now.   Frozen again under this new sensation (and if he moved, would he ruin it?)  So Dean, just staring.  At his brother, at Rhonda, at the two of them also staring, also watching Dean silently but with hope rising in their eyes. 

But also frozen.  Standing helplessly, just watching him.  Just waiting

_(C’mon)_

for him.  In silence. 

In silence, still.

But then Dean saw something else.  Something more, something in addition to those helpless, hopeful, watching eyes.

Two hands, Sam's and Rhonda's, their hands, held out to him. 

Their arms held out, extended towards him like a bridge.

_(It’s okay)_

Seeing this.

And Dean felt a sudden easing. 

Felt it, deep inside, an easing within his own body.   That painful pressure around his heart, easing. 

He could breathe again.  Sudden air, like a window opening.

He stood there, breathing. 

Looked at Rhonda.  And then at Sam. 

They stared back, silently.

Dean sighed.

“Fine,” he said.  “Okay.”

And stepped forward.


	43. Chapter 43

Rhonda was standing with one arm around Sam and the other one around Dean.

One hand on Sam’s back, the other on Dean’s waist. 

And Sam, with one of his lean, muscular arms wrapped around her, draped over her shoulder, curving around her upper back, holding her close.  And Dean, with _his_ arm wrapped around her waist, all the way around, his hand on the back of her hip.  And also holding her close.

Rhonda held so closely suddenly, against these two hard, warm, _male_ bodies, both considerably larger than her.  So closely that she could feel both of them, breathing.

Okay, this was…

_(extremely cool, holy shit)_

…kind of intimidating.

Rhonda wasn’t used to thinking of herself as small.  Or physically weak.  She was five-eight, leanly muscled, strong.  And used to holding herself tall, shoulders back.  Not slouching, curving into herself the way a lot of girls stood, not shy about herself at all.  And the showy parts too, her breasts/her ass, she wasn’t shy about them either, she could present them, she could swing them around (and that could be _way_ fun, as she’d figured out with Sam).  And her long curly hair, like a mane around her face.  It made her seem larger, she understood that, this hair like a dark cloud, with its own life somehow, crackling, electric.  Adding its own dangerous, electric presence.

So she had a presence.  She entered a room.  She took up _space_ , in the eye, in the mind (just like Dean took up space and she understood they shared that quality, her and Dean, they had that, in common).

Rhonda understood that about herself, her _presence,_ like a dark flame.  Not small, not weak.  Not physically unintimidating.  Not _cute,_ in any way.  A presence that stood out, especially in this place she called home.  Home but she’d never blended in.  Never matched the furniture.  And people noticed, okay?  Reacted, in their various ways.  Even her own family, except for her mom.  But she was used to it and she didn’t let it get to her anymore. 

I mean, it was either _‘hey, how’s it going,’_ or _‘ fuck you.’_  Right?  Her eyes, surveying her world and the people in it, receiving their various reactions to her and at the same time sending them a message.

( _You can’t deal with me?  Whatever.  I can outstare you, outsmart  you, out run you, if I have to.  I know that.  I’ve done it)._

_(I don’t care if I disturb you)._

_(It’s important that I don’t care about that)._

So yeah.  She could handle herself.  She was used to thinking that.  And showing that.  Displaying that, to the world.  To these brothers.  And they’d picked up on that, clearly.  I mean, Sam had even _said_ that to her.

She was not easily intimidated.

However.

Dean was at least six feet tall and built like a gladiator, beautiful sure, but hard, strong.  Lethal.  Rhonda had become used to admiring him from a distance but now, with that hard body right up next to her, she was exceedingly aware suddenly, of their height difference, of the difference of the breadth of their shoulders, of the latent power of Dean’s body, relative to hers.  And Sam was already taller than him.  Younger, not yet fully formed, but she could already see the power in his body too, the long hard muscles, the flashes of sure, animal grace, Sam’s body awakening, discovering its own scale of physical prowess and beauty which Rhonda could already see would set a new standard of scale.

And now these two powerful bodies pressed up right next to her, these hard muscled arms holding her.   Rhonda suddenly understood that if she wanted to step back, to step away from this and Sam and Dean didn’t agree to that…she wasn’t going anywhere.

She swallowed.   “Um…” she said.  “Guys…”

Sam had dropped his face into her hair again.  Rhonda could feel his warm breath against her scalp.  “Yeah?” he said.  And Rhonda realized he was speaking with difficulty, his breath coming fast.  And he was holding her tightly, pulling her up against him, her breasts pressed into his side.  And Dean’s body – it was pressed tightly against her as well, Dean’s chest tight against her even though he was holding her more gently than Sam.  And then she realized it was _Sam,_ his long arms wrapped around both her and his brother, who was pressing Dean’s body against hers. 

“You’re squishing us,” Rhonda said to him.  “Sam…”

“Sorry,” Sam said.  But he kept hugging her and Dean tightly.  And then he raised his face from Rhonda’s hair and tilted his head to one side.  And Rhonda realized Sam was leaning his cheek against the side of Dean’s head.   Rubbing his cheek…against Dean’s hair.   Luxuriously, like a cat.   

She started to speak again.

_(Sam…um…)_

-but then Dean suddenly dropped _his_ head.  And leaned heavily against her, pressing his face against the side of her neck.  And _his_ arm, suddenly tight around her waist, as hard as an iron band.   And Rhonda felt Sam surge against her, almost losing his balance. 

Because Dean’s _other_ arm, which had been draped over his brother’s shoulders, had suddenly tightened.

And Dean’s breath, heaving now, shuddering.   And his body, suddenly _pressed_ against her and she felt the bulge of Dean’s cock, nudging her. 

Rhonda’s lips parted.   _(Oh god…)_

And she felt Dean shaking.  Holding her and his brother, his chest heaving.   Rhonda turned towards him helplessly.  _Dean._   She wanted, she wanted…but then she felt Dean go still.  Holding her and Sam, his grip like iron and becoming still. 

Holding himself still and willing _them_ to be still, also.  And they were, her and Sam, suddenly frozen, standing like statues under Dean’s hands, waiting now as Dean held them, his breath slowing. 

Eventually Dean spoke.  Rhonda felt his lips against her skin. 

“Sammy,” Dean said in a low voice.  But speaking against Rhonda’s skin, his lips brushing her.  She closed her eyes.  “Back off,” Dean said.

Sam’s voice.  “But-“

“No,” Dean said.  “Stop.  You can’t.  Not like that.”

“But-“

 _“Sam,”_ Dean said.  And Rhonda heard his voice suddenly drop an octave.  _“No._ Not like that.  You- we _can’t._   Got it?”

Can’t what?  Rhonda was confused.  She opened her eyes.

“Can’t what?” she asked.

Dean, his hand hard on her waist.  She felt him take a breath.  Then he opened his arms, releasing both her and Sam.   “Sammy,” he said.  “Let go.”  After a moment Sam dropped his arms too.  He released Rhonda and Dean and stepped back.  And Dean stepped back, the three of them now standing in a loose triangle, facing each other.  Rhonda was suddenly cold.  That space around her suddenly, no longer occupied by these two.  She looked at Dean.  “Can’t do _what?”_ she asked him again.

Dean glanced at her briefly.  Then he stared at Sam.  “If we’re gonna do this,” he said to Sam, “you gotta listen to me.  And you know why.”

“But this was my _idea,”_ Sam said.  And he sounded indignant now.  Rhonda looked at him.  Sam was glaring at Dean, looking disappointed.  Like a kid just told he couldn’t go out to play. 

“Yeah,” Dean said dryly.  “I know.  But we’re not doin _everythin_ your way.”

“But-“

“Sam,” and Dean’s voice was deep again.  “No.  It’s not…the right thing to do.  We don’t go there.  Got it?”

Sam, staring at his brother mulishly.  Dean stared back, Rhonda watching this, Dean’s eyes on Sam,  focused, intent.  And then she saw Sam’s expression smooth out.  Like he’d just understood something.

“What’s going on?” Rhonda asked.

Sam turned to her.  His eyes were calm now.  “You’re stayin a civilian,” he said.

Rhonda looked at him.  _“What?”_ she asked.  “I don’t get it.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Sam said.  “That’s what ‘civilian’ means.”

Rhonda stared, perplexed.  She glanced at Dean.  Dean was gazing at Sam, silent.  Rhonda had the impression he was deliberately not looking at her.

“You’re not making any sense,” she said to Sam.  And frowned at him.

Sam smiled back.  Then said, “We’re not joinin the third side of the triangle.” 

Like this was an _explanation._

Rhonda stared.  “ _What?”_ she asked.

Sam shrugged.  Glanced at Dean.  “It puts up a sign.  Open for business.”

Dean nodded.  He looked relieved, Rhonda noticed.  Like he’d seen that Sam understood.  And had agreed to play ball.

Rhonda stared.   Okay, but… _she_ didn’t understand.   “A _sign?”_ she asked.

“Yeah, or like a door,” Sam said.  And his expression was serious now.  “It could create a door.”

Dean suddenly held up a hand.  Not casually.   Sternly, like he was stopping traffic.  “Sam,” he said.  “That’s enough.  Stop talking.”

_What?_

Rhonda stared at him and then at Sam.   “Um…” she said.  “A _door?_   I still don’t get-“

But then she saw.  What Sam had been describing.   A triangle in her mind, its three edges blazing brightly.  _A sign._   But then wavering, its shape blurring like an image behind heat, and becoming

_(a door, edged in fire)_

and Rhonda shivered suddenly. 

Because she’d _felt_ something.  Something in the room, something… _terrible,_ a presence like an absence, like a sudden drop in air pressure. 

An emptiness at the corner of her eye.  A darkness.  But only a flicker and then gone. 

But Rhonda was shivering.  With fright, like she’d just had a close call, like something deadly had just passed over her.

Passed _through_ her, briefly chilling blood and bone.  But not staying.

A cold shadow, passing through.   But now gone.

But her skin was still covered with goosebumps.  She looked at Dean, alarmed.  He was staring at her, gravely.

Rhonda’s lips were numb.  She licked them.  “What just happened?” she asked eventually.

“You got close to the line,” Dean said.

“…I don’t understand,” Rhonda said.

“I know,” Dean said.  “It’s better that you don’t.” 

And then he said, “Don’t ask.”

Rhonda didn’t like that.  She frowned at him.  Dean stared back, silent.  And Rhonda felt the force of his will suddenly, turned on her.  A cold, grave, deliberate turning of attention towards her, willing her.

To do what he said.  Because this was important.  Dean wasn’t kidding around.  He knew what he was talking about here.

Dean, the older brother.

Rhonda glanced at Sam.  Dean’s little brother, also standing there, obediently silent. 

Rhonda looked at Dean again.  “Why not?” she asked him.

“It’s for your own protection,” Dean said.  “You don’t want to be noticed.”

And Rhonda staring at him.   Thinking about this.

Something.  There’d been something in the room.   She’d felt it.  And Dean _knew_ she’d felt it but he wasn’t going to explain.

_(because naming calls)_

Because something had shown up.   Attracted, somehow.  But it was gone now, thankfully.  Because there had turned out to be nothing, no reason for it to linger.

_(no line crossed)_

Just civilians in this room, boring as usual.

Not worthy of attention after all.

Dean’s eyes, still on her.  Rhonda stared at him, appalled suddenly, at something she saw in his expression. 

A terrible grief.

_(You don’t want to be noticed)_

But then she blinked.   Dean’s eyes, containing this weird and terrible message, but now she blinked.  And that sense of horrified insight fading.  Gone, like the memory of a dream.

Dean’s eyes on her, quiet.

“Okay,” Rhonda said, after a moment.  “I won’t ask.”

Dean nodded.  He looked relieved.

But then he looked at Sam again.  And said something _else_ inexplicable.

“We do this, we stay on the reservation,” Dean said.  “We cross over, she does _too._   You know that.  And I don’t want to be responsible for that.  She’s unprotected.”

“You could ward her,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said.  “Warding’s its own sign.  Puts her on the radar.  And once you start, you have to continue, you _know_ that Sam.  You gotta listen to me.”

And Sam nodded back, serious now.  “Okay,” he replied.   “I’ll be careful.”

And Dean nodding again. 

Rhonda looked at this.

_Radar?_

And Sam and Dean, nodding in agreement.  Well, that was nice for them.

“Look,” Rhonda said.  “You say _‘don’t ask,’_ but don’t I have a right to know what-“ 

But then she stopped.

Because she felt something again.

_(Cold wind over dark fields dark forest, black branches crackling)_

The cold dark night, containing a restless attention. 

Looking, constantly looking for

_(a way in)_

a sign.  A door, edged in fire, blazing in the dark.  A beckoning, to things like itself.

 _Things,_ existing just on the edge of awareness, like the one that had just passed through this room. 

But outside again.  Thankfully.

Rhonda shivered.  Something.  Outside.  But drawing near again, drawing near to her…but then she felt something _else.  Another_ thing, rising within her like fury. 

That dark will present, like dread rising on her skin.  But _she_ had a will too.

_(Stay away!)_

Because nothing, _nothing_ like that was ever entering her house again.  Her house, her mom’s house.  Not while she was breathing. 

Cold fury, slamming through her.

_(I don’t choose you!)_

and

The image of the burning door was gone.   

Invisible.   Dark.

No longer blazing in her mind.  Gone.

Both brothers, looking at her.

“Never mind,” Rhonda said eventually.   “I guess I don’t _want_ to know.  Do I?”

“No,” Dean said.  “You really don’t.  You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.  Your whole future.  Bright lights, big city.”  And then he smiled at her.  But his eyes were sad.

Grief, in those green eyes.  She’d seen that in Dean, right from the beginning.  And it had drawn her in.  Hadn’t it?  Even when she’d been mad at him, for being an asshole.

“So do _you,”_ Rhonda said.  Because, I mean.  It wasn’t just _her_ who had a future.  And she felt that fierce fury again suddenly, on Dean’s behalf. 

I mean, who had told Dean he didn’t have a future?

Dean shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said.  His voice was neutral.  Sam didn’t say anything.

But when Rhonda looked at him she saw Sam staring at her, thoughtfully. 

And she realized he’d seen her get mad.  _(And mad about what?  Dean’s hopeless gaze yes, but there’d been something else before that and she’d been scared…but she couldn’t remember now what had scared her, exactly)._  But anyway, getting _mad_ finally, not scared anymore.  And Sam had seen this.  And now he was smiling at her, slightly.

And then he said, “So okay.  What’s next?”

Rhonda, looking at him.  She started to speak then hesitated.  Sam was looking at Dean now.

Dean shrugged again.  “You tell me,” he said.  “It’s your show.”

And Rhonda saw Sam, considering this.  He looked at her again.

And Rhonda saw his eyes on her, appraising. 

Glinting golden again.

“What time’s your mom back tomorrow morning?” Sam asked her. 

“Around ten,” Rhonda replied automatically.  But then said, “Hey…wait a moment…”

But Sam was smiling now.  “All night ‘n’ then some,” he said.  “That’s good.”

“Um,” Rhonda said.  “Just a sec, here.”   Sam had started towards her.  She held up a hand.  “Sam!” she said.  “Hang on a sec.”

Sam stopped.  “What?” he said. 

“Don’t you think we should _talk_ about this?” Rhonda asked him.  And eyeing him rather cautiously, I mean holy shit, the kid looked like he was about to _pounce_ on her.

“Talk about _what?”_   Sam said.  Like she was being an idiot.

Rhonda was annoyed.  “Um, _this?”_ she said.  “Like what you _think_ we’re _doing,_ here.  Were you just thinking you could spend the _night?”_

Sam looked at her, surprised.  And Rhonda saw he really had been thinking that.  She scowled at him.

Sam looked back.  His eyes on her, considering.  He tilted his head.  Rhonda felt self conscious suddenly, standing there in her bathrobe, naked underneath.  She crossed her arms in front of herself.  Glared at Sam.  He looked back, his eyebrows raised.  Rhonda realized she was tapping her foot.   She stopped.

“…Okay,” Sam said after a moment.  “So my thoughts are…we go upstairs.  Fuck.  And then we sleep for a few hours and get up before your mom gets back.  Don’t want her catchin us in bed, that’d be awkward.  And then we’ll have breakfast here if you’re okay with that ‘n’ then Dean ‘n’ me’ll head out.  Let you get ready for work.  You’re doin Sunday shift tomorrow, right?”  And then he gave her this _reasonable_ look, like everything made sense now.  All lined up.

Rhonda stared.

At Sam, planning things out for the three of them including breakfast.  Was he _serious?_   She glanced over at Dean, helplessly.

And saw that Dean was _smiling_.   He met her eyes.  Then shrugged.  Then looked at her again, his own eyes twinkling.

_(Well, you did ask him what he was thinking)_

And Rhonda found herself starting to smile back.  In spite of herself.  I _mean._

She turned back to Sam.  “So what did you want for breakfast?” she asked him.  Sarcastically.

Sam didn’t appear to pick up on that.  “Eggs,” he said.  “And bacon, if you’ve got it.  And I like toast with pb ‘n’ j.”

Rhonda looked over at Dean.  Wordlessly.  Dean nodded.  “He does,” he said.

Rhonda opened her mouth.  Closed it.  Looked at Dean, who didn’t seem to have anything else to say, and then back at Sam who was watching her, his eyes bright. 

Rhonda started laughing.  Reluctantly, but still.  “Sam,” she said.  “You’re too much.”

“Why?” Sam asked.  “What’d I do?”

Rhonda looked over at Dean.  “Is he always like this?” she asked.

“Yup,” Dean said.  He didn’t elaborate.

Ater a moment Rhonda shook her head.   Looked back at Sam.  “Why’re you so set on spending the night?” she asked him.  “Maybe _I_ don’t want that.”

“Because I want to sleep with you,” Sam said.  “Snuggle, once we’re done with the other stuff.  I’ve never done that with a…girl, before.”  And now looking at her consideringly, like he was contemplating a menu.

But Rhonda was grinning.  (Because _Sam._   Honestly).  “Part of the _experience,_ huh?” she said.  And she heard her voice, dry now but with a fond sound in it.

Sam nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  “So I’d really like for us to stay over.  If you’re okay with that.  You c’n snuggle with Dean too,” he added generously.

 _Dean_ , in her bed _._   Rhonda felt a flush suddenly, over her whole body.  And _didn’t_ look at Dean, couldn’t, right now.  She took a breath.  “Well…” she said.  

Hesitated. 

Then sighed. 

And said, “Well…we’ve got eggs…” (and Sam _smiling_ at her now, from ear to ear).  Rhonda eyed him sternly (like she _wasn’t_ just completely caving and giving the little brat exactly what he wanted) “…and bacon in the freezer.  But _I’m_ not cooking it.  If I’m doin… _other_ stuff with you guys, someone _else_ is making breakfast.”

“I’ll make it,” Dean said.

And Sam nodding, agreeably.

And Rhonda, gazing at both of them.   With _wonder._   Because both brothers looked _calm_ now, like everything was sorted out. 

And now gazing back at her.  Expectantly.

Rhonda shook her head again.  This was too crazy.  But…okay. 

Dean could do breakfast, he was a decent cook.  And _apparently_ …she could do crazy.

She sighed.  “Fine,” she said.   Then asked, rather sarcastically, “So who goes first?”

Sam and Dean looked at her.

Rhonda looked back.  She raised her eyebrows.

“Well?” she asked.

The two brothers, looking at her.   “You serious?” Dean asked, after a moment.

Rhonda smiled at him.  “No,” she said.  “I’m _joking.”_

Dean, staring at her.  Rhonda could see he didn’t quite know how to take this.  She smiled at him again.  Sweetly.

“She’s serious,” Sam said, after a moment.

And Rhonda looked at him.  Sam’s eyes on her, golden again.  Rhonda saw this and swallowed.  Sam, he’d seen right through her, past her laughter and her snarky comments, to the butterflies in her stomach.  She watched him quietly, not smiling anymore.   This was really happening.

And Sam was right.  She _was_ taking it seriously.

Sam looked over at Dean.  “So who goes first?” he asked him _._

“Um…I dunno,” Dean said.   And turned to Rhonda.  “Don’t you think _you_ should choose?”

Rhonda considered this.  “I could,” she said.  “I could choose.”  And she looked at him.

_Dean._

Dean looked back.

And Rhonda realized it wasn’t quite as simple as that.

If she chose Dean over Sam-

-and then she looked at Sam.  Who was _gazing_ at her now, with those puppy dog eyes of his.

Fuck.

She didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings.  And the thing was, _Dean_ didn’t want that either, she could tell.

But if she chose _Sam_ first…

and she looked at Dean.  And remembered these past weeks, with Dean staring at her and Sam as they teased each other, his eyes raw.  

And now Rhonda actually fucking his brother.  Not a game anymore.  For real.  I mean, even though Dean had _(stepped forward)_ said _okay_ to this whole thing…it was still kind of harsh.

And Dean, allowing it to happen.  Because he’d weighed the alternatives and given in.

Rhonda found she couldn’t go along with that, suddenly. 

Because the thought of Dean just letting this _happen_ …and the memory of those green eyes on her, that painful look in them…she didn’t want that.  She didn’t want to be the one to put that look into Dean’s eyes anymore. 

And anyway, Dean couldn’t think he could just stand there and _allow_ things.  If he was going to be here he couldn’t just shrug and step back.  What was happening…it wasn’t _all_ her fault.  Or Sam’s.

Rhonda took a breath.   Then shook her head.  “Nah,” she said.  “I’m not choosing.  You guys sort it out.  I’ll wait.”  And she went and sat down on the couch.

Dean and Sam looked at her.  Then looked at each other.  They didn’t look calm anymore.  Kind of freaked out, actually.  Rhonda gazed back at them.  She wasn’t going to say a word.

And Sam, seeing this.  His lips twitched slightly.  He turned back towards Dean.  Raised one fist, holding it parallel to the floor.

Dean stared at this.  So did Rhonda.

“You sure?” Dean asked him.

“Seems like the best way,” Sam said.  “Unless you have a better idea.”

“No,” Dean said after a moment.  “Guess that’s fine.”  And he raised his own fist.

Rhonda stared.  Were they going to _fight_ each other?

But then Dean said, “On three.”  And they both pumped their fists up and down.

Three times.

And then Sam pumping his fist a fourth time.  And Dean, with two fingers extended.

Dean groaned.  And Sam was rolling his eyes.  “Dean,” he said.  “Always with the scissors.”

Rhonda, staring.  Then she spoke up ( _had_ to).  “Are you playing… _rock paper scissors for me?”_ she asked. 

The brothers turned to her.  “Yeah,” Sam said. 

“That’s fucking _nuts!”_   Rhonda snapped.

Sam frowned.  “Why?” he asked.  “That’s what we always do when we’re havin trouble decidin who’s doin somethin.”

Dean nodded.

Rhonda, staring at them.  Then she dropped her face into her hands.  “Oh god,” she muttered. 

And heard Dean’s voice.  “Let’s go two outa three.”  And then – _groan!_ And Sam, hooting. 

And then again.  Dean’s voice.  “Jesus!”

Rhonda uncovered her face.  Looked up.   Sam was grinning.

“Let me guess,” Rhonda said to him.  “You won.”

“Yup,” Sam said cheerfully.  “Dean’s _so_ predictable.”

“Fuck off,” Dean said.

Rhonda looked at him.  Dean wasn’t grinning like Sam but he looked…okay.  Not upset.

“You okay?” Rhonda asked him. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Then sighed.  “Fuck, I could use a drink though.”

“I’ll get you something,” Rhonda said.  “What do you want?”

“You got any scotch?” Dean asked.

“…No,” Rhonda said.  “But there’s wine in the fridge.  You want that?”

Dean looked dubious.  “Wine…” he said.  “You got anythin stronger?  Or maybe, like, beer?”

“Um…I think we have some Bailey’s Irish Cream,” Rhonda said.  “Leftover from Christmas.  No beer though.  You want Bailey’s?”

Dean looked pained.  “Um…maybe just wine,” he said.  “Is it…white?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said. 

“Okay,” Dean said.  Without enthusiasm.  “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  A bit sarcastically.  “I’ll get you a glass.”  And she got up from the couch.

“I’ll have a glass of wine too,” Sam said. 

“No you won’t,” Dean said.

Sam looked at him.  Then turned his eyes to Rhonda.  Appealingly.  “Please?”

Rhonda, seeing this.  “Um…I think that’s up to your brother.”

Sam scowled.  “Dean never lets me drink.  Says I have wait till I’m _older._ ”  And now he looked and sounded like he was about five.

And Rhonda was laughing again.  Because…honestly…

“Sam…” she said,  “I can’t…I just…seriously.  I’m sorry.  You sort that out with Dean, okay?  I’m Switzerland.”  And she exited, making her way towards the kitchen.

“He c’n have milk!”  Dean called out behind her.

“Okay!” Rhonda called back.  And opening the fridge, locating the wine and milk, pouring the glasses out.  And pouring another glass of wine for herself because, well.  You know.  She kind of needed a drink too.

Back in the living room.  Handing Dean and Sam their respective glasses.  Sam took his sulkily.  “Well,” Rhonda said.  She held up her glass.  “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” the two brothers said.  And they all drank.  Sam was smiling again, Rhonda noticed.

Dean’s glass (which she’d filled to the brim) was empty.  Rhonda looked at this.  Wow, that had taken him all of like, two seconds.  “You want another one?” she asked.

“Sure,” Dean said.  Rhonda went to the kitchen and brought back the bottle.  Filled Dean’s glass back up and put the bottle down on the coffee table.  Sam was sipping his milk.  “Y’know, I don’t know why I can’t drink _wine_ with you guys, _”_ he said.  “C’mon Dean, if I’m old enough for…you know…then I’m old enough to _drink.”_

Rhonda watched how Dean would respond to this with some interest.  Because I mean…Sam had a point.

Dean sighed.   “Fine,” he said.  “He c’n have wine, Rhonda.”

Rhonda nodded.  She was trying not to smile.  “Okay,” she said.  Went back to the kitchen to get another glass.  But when she re-entered the living room she saw Sam…hugging Dean.  His cheek was pressed against Dean’s cheek.  It looked like he was whispering in Dean’s ear, but she wasn’t sure.  And Dean’s arms were tight around his brother’s waist.  His eyes were closed.

Rhonda halted.  “Um…” she said, after a moment.

The brothers sprang apart.  Looked at her.  Then Sam smiled.  He stepped forward and held out his hand for the glass.  “Thanks,” he said.  Rhonda handed him his glass wordlessly.  She glanced at Dean.  He was beet red, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

“…Sure,” Rhonda said.  Sam was filling his glass from the bottle.  Turned to Dean.  “You want a refill?”

“Okay,” Dean said.  Held out his glass.  Sam filled it then turned to Rhonda.  “Rhonda?”

“Thanks,” she said.  She held out her glass.

“That’s the last of it,” Sam said, pouring it out.  “Guess you’ll have to buy Rhonda and her mom another bottle, Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean said. 

“How’ll you do _that?”_   Rhonda asked him.

“Fake ID,” Sam answered for his brother.  “Dean’s been buyin booze since he was like, my age.”

“Oh,” Rhonda said.  She wasn’t surprised, actually.  Sipped her wine.

Sam held his glass up.  “Here, let’s have another toast,” he said.  “For _real,_ this time.”

Rhonda and Dean held their glasses up obediently.

“Here’s to Rhonda,” Sam said.  “Our girlfriend.”  And he drained his glass.

Rhonda and Dean didn’t move.  _“Sam!”_   Rhonda said.  And Dean standing there, frozen.

Sam looked up.  “What?”  Looked at Rhonda.  “Well, aren’t you?”

“Um…” Rhonda said.  And looked at Dean.

Who was staring at Sam.  But then he glanced at her.  After a moment, he smiled.  And not the nicest smile either.  “You took him on,” Dean said.  “Remember?”  And he raised his glass to her deliberately.  Drank.

Rhonda staring.  But then she laughed.  Because…Dean had a point too.  “Right,” she said.  “Okay then.”  And she raised her glass.  “To me, I guess,” she said.  Then said to Dean.  “For taking you _both_ on.”  And she drank.  Looked at the brothers.

Dean was staring at her silently.  But Sam was smiling.  Then he put his glass down on the coffee table.  Straightened, holding out his hand.  “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

Rhonda looked at this.  Sam’s hand, held out to her. 

_(Let’s go)_

She put her own glass down.  Straightened up slowly.  Took Sam’s hand.  Felt his long fingers fold around hers, gripping her hand firmly.

Butterflies in her stomach, again.

Sam was tugging her towards the stairs.  Rhonda let him pull her along, not saying anything.  She didn’t look back at Dean, couldn’t, didn’t want to see what was in Dean’s eyes right now.

But then, just as they entered the hallway, Sam stopped.  And said, “C’mon.  What’re you waitin for?” 

Rhonda looked up.  Sam was looking over her shoulder.  He was speaking to his brother.

Rhonda stared.  “What are you _doing?”_ she asked Sam.

Sam glanced down at her.  “Dean’s comin with us,” he said. 

“What!” Rhonda said.  _“Why!”_

“Cause that’s our deal,” Sam said.  “Dean’s watchin.”

_“What!”_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “You don’t mind, do you?”

Rhonda gaped at him.   Then she turned, to look back towards Dean who’d be standing there frozen, just as stunned as she was-

Dean was right behind her.

Rhonda, staring.  “You knew about this?” she asked Dean after a moment.

Dean wasn’t looking at her.  He was looking at Sam, his eyes steady.  “Yeah,” he said.  And looking at Sam.

“And you’re just… _going along_ with it?” Rhonda asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Still looking at Sam.

 _“Why?”_ Rhonda asked. 

“Because Sam wants me to,” Dean said.  And then he turned towards her.  Met _her_ eyes.   “And that’s what _we’re_ doin, right?  Doin what Sam wants.”  And then he looked at his brother again.

Rhonda, speechless.  She turned to look at Sam too.

Who was gazing at Dean, his eyes grave.

And Rhonda realized something as she stared at the two of them.  Sam and Dean, watching each other with this same steady, grave, measuring look. 

She didn’t know them.  These brothers, they were strangers to her.

And there was a conversation taking place here, in a language she didn’t understand.   An unintelligible message, communicated in this silent exchange of stares. 

And all she could do was watch.  Watch this silent conversation based on Sam and Dean’s shared history.    

The blood language of siblings.   And the brothers speaking it now, their eyes only on each other and Rhonda excluded.

And she was lonely, suddenly.  Sam holding her hand but she felt lonely. 

Not part of the conversation.  On the outside, participating in this profoundly strange situation sure, but shut out of the language that made sense of it.  And she felt it suddenly, herself alone in this configuration of three.  The only child.  The singularity.

The solitary point.  Of this… _triangle,_ created by the three of them, brought into being _because_ of her presence, but now, watching the brothers, Rhonda was painfully aware that she didn’t understand why.

Aware, painfully, of her lonely vantage point.  Watching Sam and Dean as they watched each other, their eyes filled with silent recognition.  Communicating _something_ …based on a logic of memories she would never share.  A logic unfathomable, to an outsider.  

Like her.

She recognized that, painfully.

But…

that was okay.

That was fine. 

She could deal, she guessed.

Because she was _used_ to that.  Being on the outside.  That was part of who she was.  Outside…not _solitary,_ not _alone,_ never not among others but separate somehow.  Apart. 

Outside. 

She was used to that, it was nothing new.

Everything else about this situation strange but that part, familiar.  Rhonda recognized it.

Her comfort zone.  Her recognition of that and now the pain, fading away.

Because she could _deal,_ why not?

I mean, she _could_ walk away from this whole bizarre thing, but…no.  No, she wouldn’t. 

She understood that now.

Because this situation…it was bizarre, it was inexplicable, but it was also _interesting._   Okay?   And it was _hers_ now, to have, to experience.  _Hers,_ in this lonely, left behind year, to have, suddenly. 

Hers.

Hers alone.

And seriously…these brothers were _hot._

Fucking _strange,_ fucking batshit crazy no kidding, but _god_ these brothers, they were both…so damn… _hot._

Rhonda looked at Dean, his eyes on Sam.  “You get turned on, Dean…doing what Sam _wants?”_ she asked him.  Rather meanly.

Dean turned and stared at her.  And Rhonda smiled (her teasing, _bitchy_ smile because…well, just because).   And then she waited. 

But Dean didn’t answer.  He stared at her, stone faced.

And after a moment, Rhonda stopped smiling.  Dean, she’d gotten used to thinking of him as pretty.  Most of the time.  Pretty boy.  Prettiest boy she’d ever seen.  Infuriating sure, and an asshole, often.  But pretty. 

He didn’t look pretty right now.

“Fine,” she said eventually.  Watching those silent green eyes.  “The two of you can have your little fun, I guess.  I mean at _this_ point, _nothing_ would surprise me.” 

Dean, staring back at her.  He didn’t answer.  But then he looked over at Sam.  And his expression was different now, amused.  Rhonda looked over at Sam too.  And saw _him_ staring at Dean with the exact same expression, like the two of them were trying not to laugh.

“Oh,” Rhonda said.  Looking at this.  “Did I miss something?  Was there something _else_ in the works here?  Please tell me _now,_ because if I get any more _surprises,_ the two of you are out on your cute little asses!”

“Nope,” Sam said.  And then he _blinked_ at her, his expression perfectly innocent now.  The expression of a sweet little boy.

Right.

“No more surprises,” Sam continued.   “You’re safe.”

Rhonda rolled her eyes.  “Safe,” she said.  “Okay.”

Then Dean, looking at her.  “You are,” he said, seriously.  “Don’t worry.  We’re gonna be careful with you.”

And Rhonda gazed at him, feeling her expression soften helplessly.  In spite of everything.

 _Dean,_ oh.

 _Safe_ wasn’t the word for Dean.  Or careful, either.  But _oh._  

Dean’s mouth on her, she remembered it.  And herself, watching herself in the mirror, her hands on her own body, thinking about Dean’s eyes on that.  She remembered that too.

Rhonda dragged her eyes away from Dean (that green eyed menace) and looked back at Sam. 

Took a breath.

“Okay kiddo,” she said.   Her eyes on Dean’s little brother.  “Your show, right?” she said.  “Well…let’s get the show on the road.” 

And then she smiled.  At Sam, deliberately, her eyes containing their own silent message.

_(You ready for me, Sammy?)_

Sam smiled back.  Then he turned and continued upstairs, leading her by the hand.  Dean followed silently.

***

Rhonda was sitting on her bed, her back against the headboard, looking at the brothers.

Who were sitting at the foot of her bed, looking back at her.

“What do you _mean_ you don’t have any condoms?”  Rhonda asked.  She was addressing this question to Dean.

He looked embarrassed and defensive at the same time. 

“Well…it’s not like I was _plannin_ to do this,” he said.  “Not like _some_ people.”  And he turned and looked at Sam.

So did Rhonda.

“Hey!” Sam said.  “Don’t look at me!  I’m just fifteen, remember?  Where’m _I_ gonna get condoms?”

“The _drugstore,_ like everyone else,” Rhonda said to him.  Then turned to Dean.  “Doesn’t he know about safe sex?”

Dean, beet red.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “I mean, I figured he’d’ve picked it up _somewhere._   By now.  I mean, he’s read about everythin _else.”_   And Dean stared at Sam, rather reproachfully.

 _“Dean’s_ never made informin me about _that_ side of things a priority,” Sam said to Rhonda.  And then he smiled at Dean.

Who glared back.  “Shut the fuck up, Sammy,” he said.  “You never _needed to know.”_

Rhonda sighed.  “Fine,” she said.  “I think I have some, somewhere.”  And she got off the bed, knelt beside it.  Pulled out a canvas storage box. 

“What’s in _there?”_ Sam asked.  He was peering over the side of the bed.

Rhonda glanced up.  Sam’s curious face.  “None of your business, _Sammy,”_ she said.  “Girl stuff.  And don’t look.”  Hunting around.  “Yeah, here’s some,” she said, locating a cardboard box.  Pulled out a strip of condoms and inspected them.  “They’re still fine.”  She closed her storage box and climbed back up on the bed.  Sat back, facing the brothers again, the condoms in her hand.

Sam’s eyes on this.  “Who’d you use those with?” he asked her.

Rhonda looked at him.  “My old boyfriend,” she said.  “Not that it’s any of _your_ business.”

Sam didn’t look discouraged.  “When was that?” he asked.

“Last year,” Rhonda said.  “Before he went to college.”

“You’re not datin him anymore?” Sam said.

Rhonda looked at him.  Was Sam sitting here, about to have sex with her, and seriously asking that?  “Um, no,” she said.  “We agreed we’d break up when he left, didn’t want to do the long distance thing.  And next year I’m going to college on the other side of the country anyway.”

“What’s his name?” Sam asked.

“Ezra,” Rhonda said.

 _“Ezra?”_ Sam asked.  “What kind of a name is _that?”_

Rhonda looked at him.  “I dunno,” she said.  “A guy name.”

“Is he black?” Sam asked.

Rhonda stared.  She raised her eyebrows.

“Sammy,” Dean said, “you’re bein an ass.”

“Thank you,” Rhonda said to Dean.  “No,” she said to Sam.  “For your information, he’s not black.  There’s not too many black kids around here, in case you haven’t noticed.  And just because _I’m_ black doesn’t mean that every _boyfriend_ I have is automatically _black.”_

“Sorry,” Sam said.  He looked embarrassed now.  “I didn’t mean to be an asshole.  I’m just curious about you, that’s all.  And I’m not great at talking about this kind of stuff.”

“Uh huh,” Rhonda said.  “No kidding.”  She was starting to feel amused again.  I mean, Sam.  Somehow you couldn’t stay mad.  “So what else are you curious about, Sammy?” she asked him.

“Your room, I guess,” Sam said.  “Your stuff.”  He was looking around now, his eyes bright with interest.  “I like your room.”

“You do huh?” Rhonda smiling at him.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “C’n you show it to me, later?”

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  And smiling.  “What did you want to see?”

“Oh I dunno,” Sam said.  “Everythin I guess.  It’s all cool.”  And then he said something heartbreaking.  “I’ve never had a bedroom.”

Rhonda looking at him.  She felt her expression softening.  “Sure Sam,” she said gently.  “I’ll give you a tour.”  She glanced at Dean.  And saw him looking at Sam too, his expression equally heartbreaking.  Then Dean looked at her briefly.  And looked away.

Dean, sitting quietly on her bed.  With his little brother, this overgrown puppy, beside him.

Sam, never with a bedroom.  No wonder he had no sense of privacy.  And Dean, sitting with him now, so patiently.

It was too much suddenly.  Rhonda felt herself shaking.  She swallowed.  Held up the condoms.  “These are not optional,” she said to Sam, sternly.  “Do you need a lesson on how to put one on?”

“Probably,” Sam said.  Then turned his eyes to Dean.  _“Dean_ c’n show me.”  And his voice was smooth now, inexplicably.

Dean was looking down at his hands, his jaw clenched.  “Jesus, Sam,” he muttered.  His face was bright red again.

Rhonda looked at Dean.  And took pity on him.

 _“I’ll_ show you,” she said to Sam.  “And you leave Dean alone.  He’s gonna watch, fine, but I don’t think I c’n take the two of you _talking_ to each other, while you’re, um, getting your _experience._   My nerves aren’t up for that.”  She looked at Sam.  “Is that a deal?”

Sam looked back.  Then he looked at Dean. 

Rhonda, watching this.  She turned and looked at Dean too.  “Dean?” she said.  “Do we have a deal here?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “We got a deal.”  Said to Sam, “Sammy, I’m here cause you want me here, but you’re doin this, you focus on _her._   Okay?”

Sam, looking at his brother.  Then he nodded.  “Okay.” 

Dean nodded back.  Then he looked at Rhonda.  “Go on,” he said.  Politely.

Rhonda was laughing, she couldn’t help it.  “Omigod,” she muttered.  Then said to Sam, “Okay.  So take your clothes off.”

Sam looked at her.  “What?”

“You can’t be putting a condom on over clothes,” Rhonda said.  Sarcastically.  “You gotta take them off.  At least some of them.  Condoms 101.”

Sam, looking at her.  “I think _you_ should take _your_ clothes off first,” he said.

Rhonda stared.  Then swallowed.  Sam’s eyes on her.  “Why me?” she asked.

“Cause you’re the girl,” Sam said.  “And this is _my show._   Right?”  And then he smiled at her.

Rhonda, looking at this.  Sam’s eyes she felt them now, on her skin. 

“Okay,” she said after a moment.  Then she sat up, back straight, folding her legs under herself.  Her hands went to the front of her bathrobe.  She pulled it open, slightly.

Sam staring at this.  Intently. 

Rhonda grinned.  This was starting to get fun.

She pulled her robe open a little more.  Sam stared.  Rhonda watched this then cupped her hands underneath her breasts and pushed them up and together, creating some decent cleavage.  Leaned forward.

“Like that Sammy?” she asked.  Teasingly.

Sam’s eyes, wide now.  “Yeah,” he breathed.

Rhonda grinned.  Then she released her breasts abruptly.  They bounced gently back into place, bobbing under the thin cloth of her robe.  She glanced quickly at Dean.  He was watching too.

_Good.  Keep watching, Pretty Boy._

Her eyes were back on Sam.  She shrugged her robe further open, baring her shoulders and most of her breasts, the material caught now just above her nipples.  She tossed her hair back.  And glanced quickly again between Sam and Dean.

They were both staring.

Rhonda smiled.  Then she shrugged again, letting her robe fall to her waist, pulling her arms out of its sleeves, bearing her upper body completely.

And checked out the reaction to _that._

Both brothers, their eyes fixed on her breasts.  Dean was staring silently, but Sam-

 _“Wow,”_ Sam said.  And his mouth, falling open. 

Rhonda was laughing.  With pleasure, though.  She liked her breasts, almost perfectly round, like oranges.  And with velvety brown-pink nipples, hardened to points right now.  Her girls.  She didn’t make a point of _showcasing_ them (I mean, this _was_ a small town and she was known by sight to practically everybody and related to a lot of them), but she knew her breasts drew their share of attention, even living under bras, tshirts and sweatshirts like they did for most of the time.  She knew all about the effect of her breasts on boys and men.

“Like what you see?” she asked Sam.  Deliberately not looking at Dean anymore.  But smiling, conscious of more than one riveted set of eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And staring _._   But he wasn’t smiling back.  “You’re beautiful,” he said seriously.

Rhonda felt her own smile fade.  Sam, his absorbed expression.  Like he was _receiving_ the sight of her.  She felt a tenderness towards him suddenly that was almost painful.  “You can touch them if you want,” she said softly.

And now Sam looking _thrilled._   He moved towards her.  As he got close, Rhonda was conscious again of his physical size, Sam younger than her but bigger, his shoulders now blocking out most of the sight of Dean, still sitting silently on her bed.  Sam was close enough to touch her now.  He reached out with his right hand and placed it lightly on her left breast.

His fingers were very gentle.  They spread carefully around the curve of her breast.

Rhonda felt her lips part.  Those long fingers.  “What’s it feel like, Sammy?” she asked.  Her breath was speeding up.  And the sound of her voice, barely a whisper.

“Awesome,” Sam whispered back.  And his hand was cupped around her breast now, holding it, testing its weight.

Rhonda laughed.  “Never felt one of those before, huh?” she said.  Teasing him, a bit breathlessly.

“No,” Sam murmured.  “It’s heavier than I thought.  And softer.”  And holding her breast, his head tilted to one side, Sam looking contemplatively at the sight now, of his hand laid on top of her breast, a pale silhouette against her skin. 

“Well what did you _think_ it would feel like, a _balloon?”_ Rhonda asked him.   A bit sharply.

Sam smiled.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Sorta.”  And his fingers, starting to knead into the flesh of her breast, very gently.  And suddenly his thumb, lightly touching her nipple.  Circling it.

Rhonda’s breath caught.  Sam, _touching_ her like that. 

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“What’re you _doing?”_ she asked him.

Sam looked at her.  “You don’t like that?” he asked.  And his thumb, circling.

And Rhonda letting him do this to her, helplessly.  She bit her lip.  “I didn’t say that,” she said after a moment.  “I meant…”  And her eyes closed.  Sam had paused, his thumb still on her nipple.  But the flesh was tingling there.  “Don’t stop,” Rhonda whispered.  And leaning now, into his touch.  Sam started rubbing her again with his thumb.  Expertly.

“Oh,” Rhonda said quietly.   

“D’you want me to do the other one too?” Sam murmured.  And his voice gliding over her, a dark note in it suddenly.  Rhonda kept her eyes closed.  Sam sounded a lot older.

“Yeah,” she breathed.  And turned blindly towards him, arching her back, offering her breasts up to him. 

A hand, on her right breast.  And _two_ thumbs now, teasing her nipples, circling them.  

Tingling them.  The flesh singing now.

 _“Omigod,”_ Rhonda whispered.  “Sam, you’re-“

 _“-Like_ that huh?” Sam said.  And pressing down on her nipples, slightly harder now.  Smoothing his thumbs over them.

 _“Oh,”_ Rhonda said.  _“Oh!”_ And then trying desperately not to sound like she was _melting,_ here _._   “ _Sam_ I…I thought you’d never done this before!”

“I haven’t,” Sam said.  It sounded like he was smiling.  “Not exactly.”

Rhonda opened her eyes at this.  Stared up at him.  Sam was smiling at her, his white teeth flashing.   He looked very pleased with himself.  “You’ve got dimples,” Rhonda said to him, absently. 

“I know,” Sam said.

“They’re cute,” Rhonda said.  “I like them.” 

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  He was looking down at her breasts again, his hands cupping them.  Rubbed his thumbs over her nipples again.  “I like _these,”_ he said.  “They’re like candies.”  And now he sounded like a kid.

Rhonda laughed.  Sam’s hands on her, _oh,_ but she was over her surprise now, coming back to herself.  _Sam,_ my god.  The little brother, but just as lethal as Dean.  It was startling.  Rhonda looked over Sam’s shoulder to see how Dean was doing.

And saw him staring back.  His face was still.  But his eyes were like lasers. 

Rhonda froze.  Dean had been semi-lounging on her bed, with one leg folded in front of him and the other bent up under his chin, an elbow resting on his knee.  Reasonably relaxed looking, under the circumstances.

But now.  Dean was watching them silently, his body taut as wire, _coiled,_ like the body of a hunting cat.  And his _eyes,_ dark green and _fixed_ on her and Sam.  Frighteningly still.  

Rhonda, frozen.  And Sam noticed this.  He looked up.  “What-“  And saw her eyes, staring past him. 

Sam turned, glanced over his shoulder at Dean.  Rhonda saw him pause as he took in Dean’s expression. 

But then he turned back.  And looked at her.   And now his expression, smooth as silk.  Sam rubbed his thumbs over her nipples again.  “I’m gonna put these in my mouth,” he said.  And flicked her nipples, casually.

Rhonda gasped.  _“Sam!”_ she said.  “Wait-“

But Sam had dropped his head.  He fastened his lips around a nipple and started suckling on it, _hard._

“Ohhh!”  Rhonda was keening.  Sam sucking her, biting her, his tongue stabbing.  She was clutching at his head, clutching handfuls of that silky hair.  “Omi _god,_ ” she gasped.  Sam’s tongue, teasing her nipple into a sharp point, _curling_ around it, dragging it luxuriously against the roof of his mouth.  She was writhing, pushing her breast helplessly into Sam’s mouth.  Clutching at him, helplessly.

And now Sam’s hand on her shoulder.  “Lie down,” he said.   And Rhonda lay down without protest, scooting herself forward and lying down, her naked torso laid out under Sam’s eyes, her breasts offered up to him like food.   And Sam smiling at this.  Then his head was at her breasts again, his mouth fastened around her _other_ nipple, licking it, biting it, sucking it back.  _Hard._

 _“Oh!”_   Rhonda gasping, biting her lip, arching her back against Sam’s mouth, clutching at his hair.  The sensation of Sam’s mouth on her nipple was shooting directly between her legs.  She was writhing.

“Sam,” she gasped.  _“Please-“_

Sam sat up.  Rhonda stared at him, gasping.  He was gazing down at her, his eyes dark.  A gaze as dark as his brother’s.  “I wanna fuck you,” Sam said.

“Okay,” Rhonda whispered.  Because… _god_ …they wanted the same thing.  But first. 

She wasn’t the only one getting naked, here.

“Sam,” she whispered.  “Take off your shirt.”

Sam smiled.  Then he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.  Rhonda stared at him.  And she felt her eyes get big.

Because Sam was _beautiful._

He had a pale, smooth, sculpted torso, gleaming like marble, every muscle delineated.  And lean, graceful shoulders and arms, iron muscles under satin skin, blue veins showing here and there.  And with every part of him well formed, well knit, long and slender but perfectly proportioned.  A strong, perfectly proportioned frame, just waiting for maturity (and _meals,_ lots of them) to take on the bulk and muscle of a man.  But for now the lean and graceful body of a youth, in perfect condition.   And then Sam’s thin, oval face with its high cheekbones, framed by that mane of shaggy, silky hair, his smooth, perfectly turned mouth and large, slightly tilted gleaming eyes with their long lashes.

Beautiful.

“God,” Rhonda whispered.  Looking at him.  Sam smiled.

“Like what you see?” he asked her.  Teasing.

“Yes,” Rhonda whispered.  “You’re beautiful.”  And staring at him, stunned.

Under clothes, Sam had this way of looking insubstantial.  Tall sure, but slender, almost skinny looking.  And his face, how he’d hide himself behind that tousle of hair, you never really saw how handsome he was, somehow.  Especially in contrast to his golden big brother.  Sam, he could fade into the background.  Or just be goofy, in that cute, puppyish way he had.  A cute dork.  But never particularly memorable, not like _this._   And Rhonda wondered suddenly, whether this had been deliberate.

Because _now._   This perfect youth with this perfectly carved, intelligent face, this shining fall of hair, those green-gray-golden eyes and now that _body,_ sleek muscle under satin skin…

Sam was just as beautiful as Dean. 

Not _pretty_ like Dean – there was a harder edged, wilder quality to Sam’s looks. 

But just as beautiful.  Definitely.

Why hadn’t she ever noticed this before?  How could she have just seen _Dean_ like that and not his brother?  And Rhonda’s eyes turned towards Dean, seeking an answer to this.

And saw him watching Sam with this blank, wide eyed look, an expression just like _hers,_ Rhonda realized, as if Sam’s appearance was stunning to him too.  And as she watched, Dean’s lips moved silently.  He said something, but she couldn’t make out what. 

And then Dean looked at her.

Those green eyes, glimmering now, and fixed on her, silently.  And Rhonda felt her heart clench.

_Dean._

Looking at her like that.  Rhonda couldn’t bear it suddenly.  Dean’s eyes on her.  And the expression _in_ those eyes as they watched her…it felt like a terrible responsibility suddenly, that expression in Dean’s eyes, but for what she didn’t know.

She shut her own eyes.  “Sam,” she whispered.  “I don’t think I can do this.”

“…What?” Sam said.  “Why not?”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Rhonda said.  She kept her eyes closed.  “You… and your brother…Dean watching…I just can’t.”

“You wanted to though,” Sam said.

“I know,” Rhonda whispered.  “But…but…”  She couldn’t continue.  Dean, his eyes on her and Sam.

Like the sight of that was _killing_ him.  But Dean just taking it, silent, silently watching.  And now the memory of his voice, in her mind.

_(We‘re doin what Sam wants)_

Doing that.  For reasons unknown, locked away from her.  _That_ logic between Dean and his brother only.

But Rhonda understood something else now.  

Sam was using her against Dean somehow.  Like a weapon.  And Dean knew it.  And he’d accepted, mysteriously, that Sam could do this.

But she…couldn’t allow it.

“Sam,” Rhonda whispered.  “I can’t.  _We_ can’t.  Do this.  We have to stop.”  And she kept her eyes closed because she couldn’t look at Sam right now.  Couldn’t look at Dean. 

A silence.  And then Sam’s voice.

“Dean,” he said.  And his voice sounded different.  “Tell Rhonda it’s okay.” 

Sam’s voice, with an edge to it, like steel.  Rhonda opened her eyes.  She stared up.  At Sam, gazing down at her with these intense, intent eyes, as hard and determined as his voice. 

“Dean,” he said again.  Without looking at his brother.   “Tell her it’s okay.  Tell her you’re not gonna freak out if we go ahead ‘n’ do this.”

Rhonda stared at Sam then over Sam’s shoulder at Dean.  Dean’s head was bent forward.  He’d shut his eyes. 

Rhonda, seeing this.  “Sam,” she whispered.  “C’mon.  We can’t-“

But then Dean raised his head.  Opened his eyes and looked at Rhonda.  Gazed at her, steadily.  And then he shrugged.  And smiled.

“You back out now,” he said to her, “Sammy’s never gonna forgive me.”

Rhonda stared at him.  Then she sat up, because she wasn’t going to have this conversation lying flat on her back.  “But-“

Dean shook his head.  “No,” he said.  And then he smiled at her again.  “I know you want to.  And it’s okay.”

Rhonda, staring at him.  “Dean-“ she began.  “You don’t…you _know_ you don’t have to-“

Dean shook his head again.  “No,” he said.  “I’m watchin.  Remember?  And it’s okay.  Really.  So you c’n go on now, okay?  Go on.”  And then he gestured at her.  To lie back down.

Rhonda stared.  Dean met her eyes quietly.  And then nodded at her.

_(Do we have a deal here?)_

Rhonda seeing this.  Watching Dean’s face, wordlessly.  Then she turned away from him.  Looked back at Sam.

Who was watching _her,_ rather smugly.  “Go on,” Sam said.  “Like Dean said. “  And gestured.  “Lie back down.”

Rhonda was annoyed now.  “Fuck off, Sam,” she said, sharply. 

“Oh,” Sam said.  “Sorry.  What I meant was…can you lie back down _please?”_ And smiling.  And then he _blinked_ at her.

Wow.

The little _brat._

But still.

Sam gazing at her, so sweetly now.  Blinking.  Those puppy eyes.

Uh huh.  But it still worked (because she was an _idiot,_ okay?) and she felt herself softening towards him.  Again.  Ridiculously.

However.  Sam not getting everything his way.

Rhonda shook her head (at _herself,_ actually) then said, “Sam…”

“Yeah?”

“This is my show too,” Rhonda said. 

Sam blinked.  “What-”

“-So let’s see the rest of you,” Rhonda said.  And _she_ smiled.  Sweetly.

Sam gaped.  And then, incredibly, he _blushed._

Rhonda watched this.  Wow, she’d thought Sam was beyond shame.  “Go on,” she said mercilessly.  “Show me the goods.”

Sam hesitated.  But then his hands went to his belt buckle.  He undid himself, unzipped, wriggled out of his jeans.  Kept his boxers on though.  But those long, graceful legs, runner’s legs, hard with muscle, gleaming like satin.

Rhonda stared at this.  “Sam-“ she said.

He was pulling off his socks.  “Yeah?”

“Do you shave your _legs?”_

Sam paused.  Looked at her.  “Yeah,” he said.

_“Why?”_

Sam raised his eyebrows.  “Um, I dunno.  Why do _you?”_

“Um… _I_ dunno…that’s what girls _do,”_ Rhonda said.  I mean, what kind of dumb question was _that?_

“No,” Sam said.  “That’s what _people_ do, who like to shave their legs.  Like me.”

Rhonda was silent.  Staring.  Sam smiled, then extended both long legs towards her.  Laid them over her lap.  “Feel them,” he said generously.

Rhonda put her hand slowly on his left calf.  Rubbed her hand over the smooth skin.

Sam’s long legs lying across her lap, slender, gracefully shaped, but iron hard.  Long, strong legs, longer and harder than a girl’s.  But smooth as silk.  She’d never touched another person with skin like that.  Only herself.

Rhonda was shaking.   This was-

“I-“ she said.  And both her hands were Sam’s legs now.  She ran her palms over him, up and down over his calves, over his hard, smooth thighs.  “I…”

“Mmmm,” Sam said. 

Rhonda looked up at him.  She was conscious of the expression that must have been on her face…all softened and broken open.  And now her hands, helplessly touching.

Sam was smiling at her.  He’d leaned back on his hands, his head tilted backwards as if he’d turned up to the sun, clearly enjoying Rhonda’s hands on his skin.  Then he tossed his hair back over his shoulders.  _“Like_ that, huh?” he said.  And smiling at her, his eyes lazy.

Rhonda swallowed.  “Yes,” she said after a moment.

“I shave my pits too,” Sam said.  He raised an arm.  And _smiling_ at her as he watched her eyes widen.  “See?”

Rhonda looked.  The pale, bare, tender skin.  “I see,” she said.  And heard her voice, _husky_ almost.   Because _this._   This was-

“When did you start?” she asked.  And her voice…she sounded…

_(breathless)_

…so _turned on,_ god what was the _matter_ with her?

 But her hands, still stroking Sam’s legs, the satiny skin.  She couldn’t stop.

“Last Hallowe’en,” Sam said.  “I dressed up as a girl on a dare for this school dance and then realized I…liked myself this way.  So I kept it goin.”

Rhonda thought about this.

Sam, dressed as a girl. 

And Rhonda could see it suddenly.  That supple, graceful body, the way Sam could look so slender under his clothes.  And all that flippy hair…and those eyelashes that any girl would die for.  And that sharply carved, oval face with that finely cut mouth.  And now these long slender legs, with all those miles of gleaming satin skin.  In the right outfit…with makeup…Sam could pass.  He’d be one _tall_ girl, more like a high fashion supermodel…or an Amazon…but he’d pass.  He’d be hot, actually.

Sam, this tall, graceful, disturbingly hot _girl._  Rhonda could see it suddenly, incredibly. 

But then she realized _why._

Sam’s… _ways._ They were girlish.  Rhonda saw that suddenly.  The way Sam would blink at you, all sweet…the way he had of making himself so cute and adorable…and the way he’d be with _Dean_ sometimes.  And Rhonda _saw that_ suddenly, shockingly.  Sam, with that docile way he had of letting Dean boss him around.  And then blinking at his brother so sweetly (and Dean staring back at him with this fond, rueful, absorbed expression).   Or Sam getting bitchy, pouting, giving Dean the cold shoulder (and Rhonda had seen _that_ a few times and saw how much Dean hated it).  Or Sam acting like a brat…with Dean and with _her_ too sometimes (and I mean, the kid was _fifteen_ already, he was a bit old for that kind of behaviour but Sam seemed to pull it off, and Rhonda now realized this was because Sam didn’t act bratty like a kid – he acted bratty like a _girl_ , one who knew how to lay on the charm even while being as irritating as fuck). 

And then Sam, entering a room behind Dean in this demure, rather submissive way.  Glancing carefully around, looking at Dean then looking down.  Fading back, letting Dean be the man.  She’d picked up on that, Rhonda realized, but hadn’t paid all that much attention…I mean, it _was_ a little weird, but then the _brothers_ were a little weird.  And she knew Dean looked after Sam like a parent almost, they had a different relationship from most older/younger brothers.   And she’d assumed that Sam’s behaviour around Dean was in some ways kind of ironic…a _statement,_ like _‘ Okay Dean so you’re in charge…relax already.’  _

But…even _that_ behaviour was kind of girlish actually.  Not like a little brother.  More like a little _sister,_ doing what her big brother said (most of the time), Sam behaving bratty, sweet, bitchy or demure around Dean as the mood suited him…like a _girl_ , in other words.

Rhonda thought about this.  Holy cow…Sam, when he wanted to, could act almost _exactly_ like a girl.  In this kind of…campy, traditional, _feminine_ kind of way, true, but Sam had it down.  And now with these long, gleaming, perfectly shaped legs laid across her lap, those perfect slender muscles under smooth satin skin, the legs of a supermodel who also worked out…Rhonda could see it.  Suddenly. 

Girl Sam.

_(And Sam was so good at getting his way…blinking…twisting everyone around his little finger…and that wasn’t really a guy thing, now that she thought about it…if he wanted something Sam used all the tricks of a girl, to get it).  _

_(And I mean, it was effective, wasn’t it?  Just look at their current situation)._

So what did _Dean_ think about Sam’s tactics?  Did _he_ get it?   Rhonda peered over Sam’s shoulder at Dean, curiously. 

And saw Dean’s eyes on his brother again. 

Gazing at Sam with this absorbed, slightly exasperated but _soft_ expression, like Sam was _adorable._ In spite of everything.

Uh huh.

Right.

Dean got it.

Wow.  That was interesting.

“Did you make a good girl, Sam?” Rhonda asked him.  Still stroking him.  Still looking at Dean.

“Yeah,” Sam said, casually.  _“I_ thought so.”

Rhonda saw an expression cross Dean’s face.  Very briefly, almost too quickly to notice.  And then he was back to looking like the patient big brother.  Dealing (yet again) with this incredible, unbelievable, completely _exasperating_ handful of a little brother of his.  Rhonda, looking at this.  _What_ expression had crossed Dean’s face?  It had disappeared too quickly to tell.

But maybe this whole deal explained something about Dean’s presence here.  Because Sam had clearly made his mind to have sex with a girl ( _her,_ in this case) and let’s face it, Sam was really something else.  I mean, shaving your _legs?_   Dressing up as a girl and saying you _liked it?_   How many _real_ girls wouldn’t freak out when confronted with this _kid,_ calmly showing off his smooth girl’s skin?    _Most_ girls, as far as Rhonda’s experience of her peers had shown her, would either collapse into giggles or run away screaming.

Was Sam _gay?_   Rhonda wondered that, suddenly.  Was it possible that Sam was worried he was gay and trying to compensate for that by fucking her? 

That didn’t really make sense though.  Sam seemed pretty comfortable with himself.  And although she’d never met any gay guys and didn’t have a frame of reference for them other than your stereotypical gay guy on TV…Sam _didn’t_ remind her of _that_ stereotype, at all. 

But he sure didn’t act like a _normal_ guy.

But maybe _Dean_ was worried about that.  That Sam was growing up gay.  So maybe Dean was here to help things along in the other direction.  Smooth the road. 

And make sure it happened.  Sam’s right of passage.

Fucking a girl.  Becoming a man.  Was _that_ the magic formula here?  Was _that_ what Dean was hoping to achieve for his little brother?  It made a weird kind of sense.

Rhonda looked at Dean.  Dean was staring at Sam.  Rhonda got the feeling he was deliberately not meeting her eyes again.

Well, fine.

Dean thought he was being so subtle.  But Rhonda had figured him out.

Sam was using her against Dean somehow.  That was clear.  But maybe Dean was using her _too._  

Because maybe…Dean had seen this as an opportunity to set Sam straight (ha ha).  And that’s why he’d caved in to Sam’s requests.  And stayed here, in Rhonda’s house.  And let _Sam_ stay, instead of dragging his brother off into the night.

But you know what…even if that’s what Dean was actually doing…she wasn’t mad.   And Rhonda found herself staring at Dean with exasperated fondness.  Exactly the same way he was staring at Sam.

Because it was kind of _sweet_ actually, even if idiotic.  Dean, helping Sam grow up.  Man-up.  _Most_ older brothers would just _beat_ a kid like Sam up.

But there was a problem with this whole rationale, if _that’s_ what you could call it.

The problem was…maybe Rhonda _wasn’t_ the girl to help Sam find his inner guy.

Thing was, Rhonda kind of _liked_ the idea of girl Sam.  Those qualities about him…that _hair,_ for example…she’d _liked_ all of that, from the beginning.   She’d been drawn to Sam but not with that same painful attraction she felt for his brother.  She’d just… _liked_ Sam, from the beginning.  Felt comfortable with him. 

And now she had a name for it.  Sam had been like a girlfriend with her.  Not in _all_ ways (obviously).  But in many ways.  Gazing at her with admiration, sure.  But also with understanding.  Empathy. 

_(I get you)_

And a sense of humour.

_(It’s fun being a girl, huh?)_

And it had worked.  Sam had gotten past her guard.  Slipped past the defenses that would have been up if he’d acted like a regular guy around her.   Like she was used to.  But he hadn’t.  And she’d relaxed around him.  Let loose.  And let _herself_ get all campy and girly with him because she’d felt…safe. 

Safe around Sam.  She’d cherished this, Rhonda realized suddenly.   Cherished _him._   Her adorable Sam.

But suddenly…that Sam had disappeared. 

To be replaced by this…young _man,_ with a golden glint in his eyes.  Who’d set his sights on her.  This other Sam, who’d started _hunting_  her, like a wolf after prey.

But then she’d seen Sam switch back.  Lightning fast.  To just being a kid, goofing around, giving her and Dean those puppy eyes when they got mad at him.  And now leaning back, lounging languorously across her lap, showing off those smooth legs of his.  Girl Sam, smiling at Rhonda like him and her were part of the same club.

But still ready to fuck her, regardless.  Determined to.

Rhonda stared at him, perplexed.

Sam…she couldn’t _explain_ him.  Couldn’t make sense of him.  This… _creature,_ this… _being,_ Sam seeming to exist in a world without boundaries, doing what he wanted to get what he wanted, not particularly attached to specific ways or means.  Comfortable with being whatever made sense to him at the time.  Fluid.  Undefined.  Separate from the herd.  Sam was free, Rhonda realized, in some mysterious way.  Free from the normal definitions.

Set apart from them.

It was _perplexing._

But…wait. 

Maybe not.

Maybe she…actually understood that. 

Rhonda stared at Sam, at this kid who’d somehow connected with her on this whole other level.  Who’d slipped under her skin.  Gotten to her.

Not like a guy to a girl, not even like a _girl_ to a girl. 

But Sam’s eyes, meeting hers steadily.  Gazing at Rhonda from this whole _other_ place, this place of being that wasn’t one thing or the other.

Not one thing or the other.

And she…realized she understood that.  As she looked into Sam’s weird colour eyes…with her _own_ weird colour eyes, her eyes unlike _(her mother’s/her father’s)_ anyone _else’s_ eyes within her whole family, her two families, no one _else_ who looked like Rhonda within _either_ of her two families, within living memory…she got it.

Being.  Not one thing.  Or the other. 

Belonging nowhere.   Everywhere.

She understood what that meant.

_(She understood that)_

And looked at Sam with sudden empathy.  With recognition, startlingly fierce and elated.

This kid, set apart.  Sam existing undefined in some profound way, strangely fluid, peculiar.  And Rhonda _got_ that.  Got that, about him. 

And you know what?  She liked it.  _Liked_ that quality, about Sam.  Respected it.  Liked it.  Fiercely.

And she liked those smooth legs of his too.

And she didn’t think _fucking_ Sam, at this point, would magically turn him into…you know…a _guy._   A normal teenage dude like Ezra, for example.  And she didn’t think Sam _should_ change, either.

Sam was pretty fucking awesome the way he was.

And fucking a girl…not necessarily a game changer for him.  Not the way he might be thinking, anyway.  Him or Dean.

But anyway, she guessed they were about to find out.

All three of them.

“Okay,” Rhonda said to Sam.  “Okay, _pretty girl…”_

And glanced at Dean.  Who was staring at her, his eyes wide.

Rhonda smiled at him.  Sweetly.  She turned back to Sam.  “Time to take those shorts off, pretty girl,” she said.  “Let’s see you strut your stuff.”

***

Sam was kneeling on the bed.  Rhonda and Dean were crouched on either side of him. 

All three of them were staring down at Sam’s cock.

Which was bobbing around, as Sam fumbled with the condom.

Sam was complaining.  “It’s slippery!”

“Just balance it on the tip,” Rhonda said.  “Then unroll it with your fingers.  C’mon Sam, it can’t be _that_ hard.”

“C’n you help me?” Sam asked her. 

Rhonda was grinning.  I _mean._   “Don’t you think you should learn how to do it yourself?” she asked him.  “I mean, it _is_ kind of a basic life skill.”

Sam looked up at her.  Grinned back.  “You mean, like driving?” he asked.  And then, “Oops!”  The condom had sprung from his fingers.  It bounced off one of Dean’s sock feet and came to rest on the quilt.  Sam picked it up.

“No!” Rhonda snapped.  “Get _another_ one, Sam, god!  That thing’s going _in_ me, you know.”

“I don’t want to waste them,” Sam said. 

Rhonda was laughing.  “There’s five left,” she said.  “How many times were you planning to do it?”

“As many as possible,” Sam said.  He’d picked up another condom and was peeling it from the plastic wrapper.  “And don’t forget, there’s still Dean, after me.”

Rhonda stopped laughing.  She _had_ sort of forgotten that.  They’d been just focusing on _Sam,_ since they’d all come upstairs, and neither Sam and Dean had said anything about Dean taking his turn.  Not since that little rock paper scissors contest.

But now she remembered.  And she remembered something else, too.

_(Dean’s never been with a girl either)_

Sam had said that to her.  Before Dean had showed up, all pissed off.

This whole thing…they’d been approaching it like it was Sam’s first time.  Initiating the little brother.

But incredibly, it was _Dean’s_ first time too.  It’s just that they hadn’t talked about that.  Not while Dean was in the room.

Rhonda glanced at Dean surreptitiously.  He was staring at Sam as Sam carefully positioned his new condom, a little more dextrously this time.  Dean looked red again.  But he was watching Sam closely.

Was Dean watching this for himself?  He _was,_ wasn’t he?

Rhonda felt a sudden flood of affection for him.  She considered saying something (like, _‘don’t be worried, it’ll be fine’)_ but then thought the better of it.

Because Dean clearly prided himself on being smooth around girls.  And he _was_ most of the time, to be fair.  She’d have never figured him for a virgin if Sam hadn’t told her and actually Sam hadn’t said anything about that since Dean had joined them.  Dean might not know that she knew.

Rhonda decided to keep it that way.  Let Dean keep his secret.  She’d just be extra slow and careful with Sam.  Show Dean what to expect.  Show him enough so that when it was his turn, he’d be able to act like he’d done it all before.

Rhonda wondered suddenly, whether this was the reason that Sam had been so insistent on Dean watching them.  Because for Dean not to have been with a girl by now…when clearly it would have been _way_ easy for him…there must have been a reason for it.  Was Dean _shy_ about this, maybe?  Was Sam trying to help him out?

She glanced at Dean again.  He felt her eyes on him and looked up.  She had the impression of blazing green eyes in an uncomfortable red face.  Not the best look for him actually.  Rhonda smiled.  “I’m counting on you not to be too hard on me Dean,” she said.  Nicely.  “Sounds like Sam is planning on wearing me out.”

Dean looked at her.  Then his expression cleared.  He smiled slightly.  “I won’t,” he said.  “I’ll be careful with you.”

Dean sounded sincere.  Oh _god…_ And Rhonda felt that look he turned on her, all the way to her toes.  _Dean._   She was staring at him now, silently. 

“I think I’m ready,” Sam said.

Rhonda turned back to him.  Sam was kneeling back on his haunches, looking at her expectantly.  His cock, now safely encased in latex, was stiffly extended between his legs.

Rhonda stared.  She couldn’t move for a moment.  Sam, naked there, his long hair falling to his shoulders, his beautiful young body with that hard, flushed cock, gift wrapped like a sex toy…

 _Oh_ my.

Sam was a sweet treat, alright.  And all prepped, just for her.  And having his hot older brother’s eyes on this wasn’t exactly a turnoff, either.

Rhonda leaned forward.  She put her face up close to Sam’s cock and inspected it.  “Yup,” she said finally.  “Looks good Sammy.”  And then she put her finger in her mouth.  Ran her wet finger along the length of Sam’s cock (which was a decent size), the flesh dark red under its shiny covering.  She looked up, smiling.  Sam was gazing at her, his eyes dark.

“Okay,” Rhonda said.   “You’re good to go.  So how you want to do this?  You want to go on top?”

“Um…” Sam said.  He looked nervous suddenly.  A little worried.

“Or you could lie down,” Rhonda said.  She was trying not to smile.  She put a serious, businesslike look on her face.  “I could straddle you.  Ride you.”

Sam bit his lip.  He looked intrigued suddenly and Rhonda could see his brain working.  _(I mean, wow, positions?  Cool!)_.  Rhonda was laughing, she couldn’t help it.  “So how’s it gonna be, Sammy?” she asked.  “How do you want your first time?”

Sam looked at her.  Then he said.  “Can I take you from behind?”

Rhonda stared.  “What, you mean like, doggie style?”

Sam, looking at her.  “Yeah,” he said.  And he didn’t look nervous anymore.

“Um…” Rhonda said.  She glanced at Dean.  Who was gazing at Sam thoughtfully.

“I don’t think so,” Rhonda said.  “Not the first time.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He sounded philosophical.  “Sure.  We’ll save that one for when we’re all a bit more comfortable with each other.  So in _that_ case I think I want you on your back.  Over there.”  And he looked at her, expectantly.  And gestured.

Rhonda hesitated.  Well, _that_ was pretty confident of the little brat.  But to be fair, she _had_ asked him.  She started to move past Sam, to lie herself down on the centre of the bed.  But Sam stopped her.

“Wait,” he said.  “You need to take your robe off.”

Rhonda stared at him.  Sam stared back, calmly.  Gestured.  “Go on,” he said.  “Take it off.”

Rhonda, staring.  But then her hands moved to the tie at her waist.  Rather slowly. 

Sam looking at her.  He raised his eyebrows.

_(Go on…I’m waiting)_

Rhonda observing this.  And she felt odd suddenly.  Nervous.  Sam looked pretty damn determined.  If she changed her mind at this point, tried to call the whole thing off…would he let her?  Looking at his face right now, she wasn’t sure about that.  She glanced quickly at Dean.  What about him?  Dean was watching her and Sam quietly.  She couldn’t tell anything from his expression.

Rhonda swallowed.  Sam wanted his show.  And Dean had clearly committed to it.  And now these two tall, hard muscled young men who knew _martial arts…_ sitting on her bed, waiting for it.  I mean…it _was_ kind of intimidating.  And Rhonda was aware again that she didn’t know the brothers all that well.  And what she _did_ know about them…how reassuring _was_ that, really?

Well…but.  It wasn’t like she was about to call this off anyway.  She’d committed to it too.  But still.  Sam had made her nervous for a moment.  And that was sort of…not good.

And that little _brat…_ she wasn’t about to let him think he could order her around.

She let her hands fall to her sides.  _“You_ take it off,” she said to him. 

Sam looked at her.  Rhonda raised her eyebrows.  “Go on,” she said.  And waited.

Sam didn’t move.  He looked rather taken aback.  Rhonda felt herself starting to smile again and contained her expression ruthlessly.  She wasn’t about to make this easy for him.  Not now.

Sam cocked his head.  Looked at her robe, consideringly.  Rhonda waited.

Then Sam reached out.  Undid the ties holding her robe together.  And pulled the garment gently away, dropping it on the bed.  And stared at Rhonda, now completely naked.  Stared at the dark fleece between her legs.

Rhonda watching him.  And she felt her breath catch. 

Sam’s eyes on her, with this _pleased_ look in them.  Pleased.  Proprietary.  _Anticipatory._   Sam gazing at her pussy like he’d just been handed keys to it.

_Wow._

She _felt_ that look, between her legs.  And she was wet now, she could feel it.  Would Sam notice, would _Dean?_   Sam staring between her legs, so intently.  It was, it was-

Too much, suddently.   An insistent pleasure, suddenly taking her over.  She felt shaky.  She didn’t look at Dean.

“Lie down,” Sam whispered.  He hadn’t raised his eyes.  “Lie back.”

Rhonda didn’t move.  “What do you say?” she whispered back.  And speaking with difficulty, her body no longer completely within her control.  Just holding herself steady, that was taking all she had.

“Please,” Sam replied, absently.  His eyes hadn’t moved.  But then he looked up.  And grinned at her.   _“Please_ Rhonda,” he said.  And _blinked_.

 _Brat._   But Rhonda eventually grinned back.  Sam.  I _mean._   But she could move now.  That helpless, shaky moment had passed.  She laid herself down carefully.  Then raised her legs, bending them at the knees.  Spread her legs.  Looked at Sam.

Sam’s eyes were wide now.  He was staring between her legs like he was trying to read something there.  His grin had fallen off his face.  Rhonda observed this then looked over at Dean.

Dean was watching her quietly.  He met her eyes.

Rhonda looked back. 

_(Dean, his eyes on her)_

_(Oh)_

“Show it to me,” Sam whispered.  “Let me see.”

Still staring at Dean, Rhonda put her fingers on her pussy.  Opened it slowly, the tender lips turning outwards.

“Here you go Sammy,” she said.   But still looking at Dean. 

Dean looked back at her.  He didn’t say anything. 

Rhonda glanced over at Sam.  “So what do you see, kiddo?” she murmured to him. 

Sam’s wide eyes on her.  “Girl stuff,” he murmured back.  Rhonda grinned.

“So what should I do now?” Sam said.  And he sounded unsure of himself again.  Very young.

“Come here,” Rhonda said kindly.  But then she looked at Dean again.  And with her fingers still on her pussy, displaying it.

Conscious of the sight, her pussy like a pink flower opening.  The dark passage.  Cool air on her flesh now.  Rhonda, watching Dean watch this.  She met his eyes.

_(So what do you see)_

Dean’s eyes on her.  But just sitting there, silent.

Then Sam.  “How?” he asked.

Rhonda looked away from the silent older brother.  And back towards Sam, his eyes as large as saucers.  _Puppy._   She smiled.

And raised her arms to him.  “Just c’mere,” she said to Sam gently.  “I’ll show you.”

Sam came right over.  He put himself between her legs, his arms propped on either side of her.  Looked down at her face.  “Now what?” he said.  He looked all enthusiastic again.

Rhonda’s hands were on his shoulders.  “Careful not to fall on me!” she said.  “You lose your balance you could hurt me.”

“I won’t,” Sam said.  “I’ll be careful.”

Rhonda smiled.   Sam sounded sincere.  And like a good student.  “Okay,” she said.  “Now take one hand and guide your…er…”

“My cock?”

“Yeah.  Guide your cock inside me.  I’m going to push up a little bit to help you, see?”  Rhonda tilted her hips up.  “Just slip yourself in.  Things should be pretty straightforward after that.  You’ll see.”

Sam was balanced on one hand now.  His other hand was on his cock, which Rhonda felt pushing against the entrance of her pussy.  Sam was frowning with concentration.

_(I gotta get this right)_

Rhonda felt laughter rising.  She contained it.   “That’s it,” she said encouragingly.  She felt the blunt head of Sam’s cock, slipping just inside her.  “That’s it Sammy,” she whispered.  And she was suddenly so _wickedly_ _turned on_ _again,_ wet, slick… “That’s it,” she whispered.   And looked up, her breath catching and met Sam’s eyes.

“Fuck me,” Rhonda whispered to him.

Sam gazing down at her.  His expression had cleared and Rhonda saw him smile slightly.  Then he pushed in, all the way into her.

Rhonda’s head fell back.  _“Oh,”_ she gasped.  Sam was _large._

And now Sam thrust into her again, not with the kind of tentative, slightly off rhythm stroke that Rhonda remembered from her first time with Ezra, but with a strong, sure, _smooth_ push, going deep.  And hitting her, just right.  She closed her eyes, feeling this.

“How’s that?” Sam asked.

“…Good,” Rhonda replied.  Gasping slightly.

Sam withdrew slightly and thrust again.  Hard.  Smooth.

“Oh!” Rhonda gasped.

“How’s _that?”_   Sam asked.

“Good,” Rhonda replied breathlessly.  “Looks like you’ve got the hang of this.”

“Yeah?” Sam said.  He withdrew again and thrust again.  Hard.  Smooth.  And now grinding against her.  _Into_ her.  Just right.

 _“Shit,”_   Rhonda whispered.  She was trembling now.

“Is that okay?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “It’s okay.”

“Should I keep on goin?” Sam asked her.

Rhonda opened her eyes, looked at him.  Laughed, shakily.  “Why, you want to stop?”

Sam smiled.  “Nope,” he said.  And then he withdrew slightly again.  Thrust again.  And _ground_ into her, exquisitely.

“Omigod,” Rhonda whispered.  “Sam, you’re killing me.”

“Seriously?” Sam said.  He sounded worried now.

“No,” Rhonda said.  “I mean…it feels awesome.”

“That’s good,” Sam said.  He withdrew.  And thrust again.  Deeply.  Gorgeously.   Rhonda moaned.

“I _want_ you likin it,” Sam said.  His voice was serious.   “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “Can’t you tell?  You’re doing great, I can’t believe it.”  And Sam thrust into her again.  Smooth, deep and hard.  And Rhonda gasped.  “I can’t believe you’re a virgin,” she said to him.  When she could speak.

 “I learn fast,” Sam replied.  And then he raised his voice slightly.  “And I’ve had a good… _teacher.”_  

But now Sam’s voice sounded different.  Harder, not with that soft, considerate tone he’d been using.  That was a bit strange, he almost sounded…mad at her.  But then Sam thrust into her again, a careful, deep stroke and she stopped thinking about his _voice._   Because, omigod.  _This._

“Well…doesn’t look like I’ve had to show you…much…after all,” she said.  And her voice, filled with such pleasure and surprise.  Because this _kid…_ oh…

_(Sam fucking into her, so smooth and deep)_

…this kid was a treasure.

“No,” Sam said.  “Guess _not.”_   And his voice still sounded rather hard.  And deliberate, like he wanted to make sure she heard him.  Which was odd, I mean, she was _right here._   She could hear him just fine.   “You okay?” Rhonda asked him.  Looked up at him.

And saw Sam gazing down at her.  And she blinked at his expression, which was cold and kind of turned inward, like he wasn’t really looking at her.  Rhonda shrank back, involuntarily.  “…Sam?” she asked.

But then Sam’s expression changed, lightning fast.  He was looking at her tenderly now, so tenderly, like she was just _it_ for him.  “Yeah, I’m good,” he said.  And then he thrust into her again, _right_ into her, moving in her just… _right._

 _“Oh!”_   Rhonda’s eyes had fluttered shut again, helplessly.

And now Sam whispering, softly.  “Good, huh?”  And moving in her, smooth and deep.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered back.  Because it _was,_ omigod.

“Rhonda…” Sam whispered,  “c’n I kiss you?”

“Sure,” Rhonda whispered back.  She raised her mouth.

She felt Sam’s lips brush hers, lightly.  And then he thrust into her again.  Deep.  She moaned.  Then raised her mouth again.

But then Sam’s voice.  “You watchin, Dean?”  And again he sounded different.  Harder.  A clear, definite tone entering his voice, almost metallic.

Silence.

Rhonda opened her eyes.  Stared up.  And froze.  Sam’s face was very close to hers.  And with those slanted, dark grey-golden eyes of his, now staring down at her with a kind of lethal intensity, like this wasn’t just about fucking anymore. 

Sam staring at her like he was out for blood.  Rhonda’s mouth fell open, shocked.

And now Sam speaking again.   “Dean!” he said.  “You watchin?”  And staring at her.

And Dean’s voice.  “Yeah.  I’m watchin, Sammy.”  And Rhonda hearing this, felt a kind of _tear,_ deep inside of herself.  And she felt it on her face too, her expression torn open suddenly as she gazed at Sam.  Gazed helplessly up at him, unable to look away.

Dean’s voice, it had sounded broken.

And now Sam _smiling,_ incredibly.  But not a nice smile.  And still staring at her, his eyes like daggers.  “Good,” Sam said.  And thrust into her again.  _Hard._   Rhonda gasped.   “You keep watchin,” Sam said.  And staring down at Rhonda, his face hard.  Intent.

Rhonda shrank back. 

Sam…he looked frightening.

But then Sam’s expression changed again.  And now he was gazing at her warmly, pleasurably.  Gazing down at her like she was just the most awesome thing ever.  And murmuring, “Rhonda…I’m gonna kiss you again, okay?”  

And that frightening look in his eyes was gone, like it had never been there.

But Rhonda felt tears rising, suddenly.  Sam, so tender with her after speaking to Dean so harshly like that.  It didn’t…seem right somehow.  What was going on?   But now Sam.  Moving against her, moving _in_ her, so gently, so carefully now, with that hard silky body so close to her, skin to skin.  “I wanna kiss you again,” Sam whispered.  Tenderly.  “Okay?”  And _covering_ her with himself and moving inside her, so gently.  It was-

“Okay,” Rhonda whispered back.

She put her arms around him.

And then Sam’s mouth on hers.  And now he was kissing her, kissing her sweetly, that smooth supple mouth of his kissing her, and Sam’s tongue on her lips, the same skilled, exquisite tongue that she’d felt on her nipples, and now Sam’s mouth covering hers, suckling her mouth, licking her, _owning_ her mouth and her mouth raised to Sam’s mouth helplessly and then Sam thrusting his cock into her, smooth and deep, faster now, hitting her just _right,_ over and over again…

Rhonda was crying out against Sam’s mouth.  She raised her legs, straining up, and wrapped them around his waist.  Sam was pumping into her now, harder and faster, his own breath starting to shudder.  But still kissing, kissing her, intent on her, _focused_ on her, _focused_ on this…

And Rhonda, _feeling_ this.  Sam’s mouth, his tongue, his merciless cock, and Sam’s _mind,_ turned to her, tuned into her, Sam so _intent_ on her, on _this,_ so intent on drawing this pleasure out of her, mercilessly, intent on _discovering_ her, discovering her body, she could feel it, Sam _learning_ her, mapping her out like new territory, claiming her with his mouth, his cock and Rhonda moaning and shuddering under this with Sam thrusting into her, again and again, that long, lean graceful body arched over her and Rhonda clutching at him with arms and legs, trembling, keening into his mouth, outside of herself now, just receiving this, this sensation of _Sam,_ all silky skin and hair and warm satin mouth, hard muscles and hard long cock and then Sam shuddering now, his thrusts speeding up, his breath shuddering into her mouth…

…and then Sam raising his head.  And speaking harshly against Rhonda’s mouth-

_“Dean…you’re watchin this…Dean…”_

And Rhonda brought into awareness again of the silent older brother sitting on her bed, those green eyes that she’d dreamed of for months now trained on her and Sam, Dean watching them like Sam had asked of him, had demanded of him and Rhonda was shuddering helplessly, and the vision of her helpless body under Dean’s eyes, the pleasure shattering over her like glass, piercing her with broken shards, Rhonda crying out into Sam’s mouth and Sam shuddering too, crying out too, a harsh, broken sound, Sam not sounding like himself, but then thrusting into her one final time, his cock pulsing, and then dropping down onto her, settling down onto her, and burying his face against her throat.

Sam, now resting against her, quiet. 

But Rhonda was in tears. 

Tears, rising up out of nowhere.  For the second time that night. 

Sam, so tender with her.   So intent on her pleasure.  But anger had brought him to this place. 

And she didn’t know why.

Rhonda put her arms around him.  Clasped a hand against the back of Sam’s head.  Closed her eyes, the sound of Sam’s intent, bitter voice echoing in her mind.

_(Dean…you’re watchin this…)_

His voice, at that moment of their mutual ecstasy.  Crying out to his brother. 

Sam, her sad child.

There were tears pooled in her eyes.  She blinked them away, not wanting the brothers to see.

And Sam just lying on her now.  Silent.  Rhonda stroked him quietly.

Dean was silent too.

Sam’s breath had slowed.  Rhonda held him.  Her tears had dried up.  Sam, lying sprawled on top of her, a sweet, warm weight.  And she felt a great affection for him starting to radiate, warm and deep in her belly. 

Sam.  This incredible kid.  He was…

 _(clearly intent on something here/he wanted something...something_   _she didn't understand…)_

…something else.  A once in a lifetime event.  But he was also _hers_ now, incredibly.  To hold.  To… _experience._

 _Sam._ He was so precious to her suddenly.  She wanted to hold him like this forever. 

However…

(Sam lying on her, breathing).

he was also heavy.

Heavy.  And dripping with sweat.

And covering _all_ of her, like a sweaty, heavy blanket.  And that tousled, silky head, now buried in her throat.  Sam’s hair was getting into her mouth.

Rhonda blew a few strands away from her lips.  Then spoke. 

“Um…Sam…?”

“Yeah?”  Sam’s breath against her throat.

Rhonda stroked him, the smooth hard shoulders.  “You’re starting to squash me, kiddo.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  Didn’t move.  Then sighed.  “Okay.”  And he levered himself up.  “I’m gonna go wash up, okay?”

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  Then- “Careful!  Don’t want that slipping off inside me.”  And gesturing down to where they were still joined, to Sam’s cock still clad in the condom.

“Okay,” Sam said.  He slid out of her carefully.  Then knelt back on the bed, looking down at himself rather distastefully.  “What do I do with it?” he asked.  “Should I flush it?”

“No,” Rhonda said.  “Just put it in the trash.  But make sure you wrap it in tissue or something, I don’t want my mom seeing.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He peeled the condom off himself and held it gingerly in one hand.  Then got up off the bed.  Stood over her.  Rhonda looked up at him.  She felt tired now, and rather cold, with sweat, both hers and Sam’s, drying on her skin.  And now Sam, his young, tall, naked self, staring down at her.  “Go on,” Rhonda said to him.  Rather grouchily.  “What’re you waiting for?”

Sam standing there.  But then he smiled.  And leaned over and kissed her on the lips.  “Thank you,” he said softly.  Then added, “That was _great._   I’m glad we did this.”

“…You’re welcome,” Rhonda replied after a moment.  And her voice was gentle.  She’d meant it to sound edgier, a bit ironic maybe, but it hadn’t come out that way.  She smiled at him.

 _Sam._   He was…he was something else, seriously.  But really…it _had_ been great.

Sam, smiling back.  Then he turned and left the room.

Rhonda’s eyes turned to Dean.  She wasn’t smiling now.

And neither was Dean.

They stared at each other, silently.

Eventually Rhonda spoke. “Well?” she asked.  “Enjoy the show?”

Dean, looking at her.  He shrugged.  “Sure,” he said.

“…What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Rhonda said.  Sharply.

And Dean, looking at her.  He didn’t answer.

Rhonda waited another moment then sat up.  She crossed her legs, sitting casually before Dean on the bed.  Naked still, full frontal, but she wasn’t concerned about that now.  After all, Dean had seen it all.  “You gonna answer me?” she asked him.

Dean was silent.

Rhonda looked at him carefully.  Dean’s expression was neutral but she remembered his voice from before, when he’d answered Sam’s question.

_(I’m watchin, Sammy)_

How he'd sounded.

She looked at his face.  His voice that had been so broken open, shattered. 

But now his expression, carefully calm. 

Put together again.

“Never mind,” Rhonda said, more gently now.  “It’s okay.”

Dean looked at her.  He started to say something.

But then Sam, calling from the other room.  “Say Rhonda…c’n I have a _shower?”_ he asked. 

“Okay,” Rhonda called back.  Her eyes still on Dean.

“Wow, _thanks!”_   Sam called.

Rhonda glanced towards her open bedroom door.  Sam had sounded rather too thrilled about that.  She looked at Dean, inquiringly.

Dean was smiling ruefully.  “We don’t have a shower at our place,” he said.  “Sammy’s been takin baths.”

“Oh,” Rhonda said. 

Dean didn’t say anything else.

They heard the shower go on.

Dean sat there silently.  Rhonda, watching this.

“You could have a shower too,” Rhonda said.  When it didn’t appear that Dean was going to do or say anything else.  “Later.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Rhonda said. 

Dean sat there.

Rhonda, waiting.   Watching him, rather sympathetically.   Dean, she felt badly for him, okay?  Sitting there on her bed like he…couldn’t move.  Like he was worn out.  

Like Sam had exhausted him too.

But the thing was… _should_ she feel badly?   What had really happened here?

“You wanted this too _,”_ she said to Dean eventually.  “You _could_ have said no.  Told Sam he was out of line.”

Dean looked at her.  “Could I?” he asked.

“Sure you could,” Rhonda said, after a moment.   “You could have…reasoned with him.”

Dean laughed.  Not sarcastically.  Genuinely, with genuine amusement. 

“And that would’ve helped me _how?”_   he asked.  And looked at her.

Rhonda stared back.  Dean was really asking, she realized.  And waiting for her to answer him.  He really wanted to know.

She thought about it. 

And realized that she had…no idea.

She didn’t know. 

Because, Sam.  He was…well he was like… _Sam._ Who wanted what he wanted.

And got it, apparently.

Because he _didn’t_ listen to reason.  It wasn’t a thing for him.  Except as something for that brain of his, to play with. 

Reason.  He just turned it around on you.

Rhonda remembered this now, clearly.  Her attempts to reason with Sam.

Yeah, right.

She shook her head, defeated.  “I don’t _know_ , I guess,” she said.  And now she was laughing too.  “I _don’t_ know!”

And Dean was grinning.  _“See?”_ he said.

Rhonda, laughing helplessly.  “How do you _live_ with him?” she asked.

And Dean grinning at her.  “Trust me,” he said.  “It’s not easy.”

And Rhonda, laughing.  Looking at Dean, who looked _pleased_ now, somehow, gazing at her with genuine appreciation.

_(Wow, someone else who gets it about Sam!)_

But then she stopped laughing.

Because of Dean, just sitting there.  Not going anywhere.  And not just because he was recovering from that previous scene, or not totally.

Just sitting there, patiently.

Dean was waiting for her, she realized.

“So…what now?” she asked.

Dean looked at her.  He looked serious again too.

Rhonda looked back.  She felt her breath speeding up.  “What now, Dean?” she asked.  Quietly.

“I guess now…” Dean said, “it’s my turn.”  And sat there, gazing at her steadily.

In silence, broken only by the sound of the shower from the other room.

Rhonda swallowed.  Those green eyes on her.  “You want to wait till Sam gets back?” she asked.

“No,” Dean said. 

And didn’t say anything else.

Rhonda, waiting.  She felt tense now, her whole body cold and tense.  She glanced down at herself.  Her nipples, hardened into points.  She looked back at Dean, a bit angry.  What the fuck was he doing, just _sitting_ there?

Then Dean’s voice.  “The way you were… _touchin_ yourself, before,” he said.

Rhonda looked at him.  “Yeah?” she said.

Dean looking back.  “Do that again,” he said.

Rhonda stared.  “That’s what you want?” she asked, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean said. 

Silence.  The shower running.

“Okay,” Rhonda said.

And she slowly put her hands between her legs.  Put her fingers on the lips of her pussy.  “Like this?” she asked.

Dean’s eyes on her.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Like that.”

Rhonda laid the pads of her fingers onto the soft lips.  Slowly turned them outward.  “Like _this?”_ she whispered.  She felt a pulse starting to tap between her legs, little bursts of pleasure. 

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  His eyes were intent now.  “Like that.”

“Do you see my clit?” Rhonda whispered.  Because she could _feel_ it, stretched out, exposed to the cool air.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.

“What’s it look like?” Rhonda asked.

“Like a little pink button,” Dean said.  And his eyes, focused on her, taking this in.  And his face, that beautiful face with that beautiful mouth, so focused on this, serious.

_(Dean’s beautiful face, his mouth, in her mind)_

“Put your mouth on me,” Rhonda whispered.

Dean hesitated.  But then he came over to her.  Sat close to her on the bed.  He wasn’t looking between her legs now.  He gazed into her face.  “That’s what you want?” he asked.  

“Yes,” Rhonda whispered.  Dean and her, staring at each other silently.  But then Rhonda dipped a finger into herself.  And rubbed her wet finger over Dean’s lips.  Back and forth.  Dean’s eyes darkened.

“Do it,” Rhonda whispered.

Dean, watching her.  Then his hands on her shoulders.  “Lie back.”

Rhonda lay back.  “Put your knees up,” Dean said.  “Spread your legs.”

Rhonda bent her knees up.  Opened her legs.  Dean was crouching in between them now.  “Put your arms over your head,” Dean whispered. 

Rhonda was breathing shallow and fast.  She raised her arms, folding them behind her head.  “Like this?” she said.

Dean looked up.  She saw his eyes taking this in, her stretched out body, her arms folded neatly out of the way, her breasts offered up to him, the nipples sharply pointing up.  Her open legs.  “Yeah,” Dean said.  “Like that.”

And then he leaned forward.  And kissed her, very gently, on her clit.  His tongue, just touching there, a light dab.  Just once.

Rhonda was shuddering.  “Dean-“ and she started to reach out, her hands held out to clutch his head close. 

“-Stay still!” Dean said sharply.  “And put your arms back where they were.”

Rhonda folded her arms back behind her head.  She was breathing hard.  “Dean,” she said.  “C’mon-“

“Nah,” Dean said.  “You wanted this, remember?  And you’re gettin it.  You’re gettin what you asked for.”

And then his tongue on her clit.  Very gently.  Dabbing at it.  Teasing it.

Rhonda made a soft sound, not quite a moan.  But she stayed still this time.

“That’s it,” Dean whispered.  “Good girl.”

 _“Dean,”_ Rhonda said.  “I-“

“Shhh,” Dean said.  “No talkin either.  Between you _and_ Sam, two smartmouths, Jesus.  You just be quiet now.  Lemme do this.”

Rhonda bit her lip.  She was quiet.

“That’s it,” Dean said.  He was leaning over her now.  Rhonda looked up at him, that perfect, hard face under the ruffle of dark blonde hair, those green eyes, that mouth.  Those broad shoulders.  She couldn’t stand it, suddenly, Dean’s beauty, so up close and personal.  She shut her eyes.

And felt Dean’s lips on her throat.  He kissed her there, gently.  Feeding on the spot just under her ear.

“Oh,” she said.  Very quietly.

And now Dean’s lips in the hollow between her collarbones.  His tongue there.  She felt the brush of his hair against her throat.  Dean’s thick, short hair, like rough silk, so different from Sam’s.  And Dean’s face, the light stubble, scraping her skin.

Omigod.  This guy was… _so hot._ Rhonda was shuddering.  And now Dean’s face against her breasts.  His tongue, circling a nipple.  Very lightly.  Slowly.  Around and around.

Rhonda was wriggling.  And she was trying _really hard_ not to say anything.

_(Dean!  More!  And do the other one!)_

But Dean, taking his time, ignoring the fact that Rhonda was _dying_ here (the jerk).  And his tongue, leisurely circling.  And then finally (finally) moving over to her other breast. 

And taking _that_ nipple into his mouth.  Leisurely.  And then that _tongue,_ oh.   The sensation, shooting through her.

 _“Shit,”_ Rhonda muttered.   She felt Dean smile.  _“Like_ that, huh?” he whispered.  “I noticed that from before.”

And then his mouth on her abdomen.  Her belly.  She could feel his lips open against her skin.  His hands, on her waist.

“You’ve got a great body, Rhonda,” Dean said.  And his hands, running over the muscles on her abdomen, over the tight smooth skin of her belly.  His mouth, his tongue, exploring her.  “You’re fucking hot, Jesus.”

“Thanks,” Rhonda whispered.  “You’re not bad yourself.”

She heard Dean laugh.  Then his head was between her legs.  Rhonda felt his lips against the soft hair.  She raised her head, looked down.  Dean’s bright head between her legs.  _God._   Her breath, shuddering.  And then Dean raised his head, looked up, those green eyes peering up from between her legs.

“Time for the main show,” Dean said.  “Don’t break my neck now.”

Rhonda laughed breathlessly.  “I’ll try not to,” she said.  “That would be awkward.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Sure would.”  And then he dipped his head.   And now his face, buried between her legs, his hands cupping the backs of her hips.  Holding her.  “Here we go,” he murmured.

And then his tongue, stabbing into her clit.

Hard.

“ _Ohhh!”_   Rhonda was keening.  She felt her hips lifting up, lifting off the bed.  And Dean’s hands, holding her firmly.

And then that tongue again, stabbing her, dabbing into her, circling around.

 _“Oh oh oh!”_   Rhonda was crying out helplessly.

And now Dean _nibbling_ on her, _feeding_ on her, curling his tongue around her clit and _sucking_ on her.

“Oh. My. _God!”_   Rhonda was gasping for breath.  And with her hands against Dean’s head now, knuckles curled into his hair helplessly. 

“…What d’you think you’re doin?” Dean said.  He’d paused his activities.

“I’m sorry,” Rhonda gasped.  “I can’t help it.  Dean, _please…”_

“You pull on my hair you’re gettin a swat,” Dean said. 

Rhonda released his hair.  Put her hands back above her head.  “Don’t stop,” she said, gasping.  “Keep going Dean, _god…”_

“Sure,” Dean said.  “Okay.”  And he dipped his head again.  And fastened his mouth onto her clit again, sucking it back, Dean’s tongue on her clit now, licking her clit, curled around her clit with this incredible, relentless _suction, scraping_ against the knot of nerves there.

 _“OH!”_  Rhonda crying out.  Writhing.  And Dean’s hands, holding her down firmly.

And Dean’s tongue on her, pressing down strongly now, licking her, suckling on her, _stabbing_ into her, over and over…

Rhonda was coming.  The pleasure blasting through her, spiralling outwards from that burning centre of herself that Dean had somehow claimed and Rhonda shaking now, shuddering, crying out helplessly, her hands gripping the pillow above her head.

“Hey,”  Sam voice.  “What’s all this?”

Rhonda opened her eyes.  She looked up, hazily.  Sam was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.  He was staring at Rhonda and his brother, frowning.

Rhonda closed her eyes.  “Sam,” she whispered.  And Dean’s tongue, licking her, slowly now, luxuriously.  She was boneless.  She lay there under that tongue, helplessly.

But then Dean sat up, leaving her.  “What’re you doin?” he asked.

“Isn’t that _my_ question?” Sam asked.  Rhonda opened her eyes at this.  Stared at the brothers.

Dean was smiling.  “I’m havin some fun with your _girlfriend,”_ he said.  “Like she wanted.  You okay with that?”

Sam came into the room.  “You gonna fuck her?” he asked.

“…Yeah,” Dean said. 

“You gotta wear a condom then,” Sam said.  “Like _I_ did.”

Dean shrugged.  “Sure,” he said.  “I was plannin to.”

Sam had dropped the towel.   “Rhonda,” he said.  “Do you have some kind of sweats I c’n wear?  I don’t feel like puttin on my jeans again.”

Rhonda sat up.  She looked at him.

Sam looked back.  He was serious, Rhonda realized.

She rolled her eyes.  “Bottom right hand drawer,” she said.  Gestured towards her bureau.  Sam opened the drawer and pawed through it.  Eventually pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants.   “Thanks,” he said.  Pulled them on over his bare butt.  The sweatpants ended halfway down his shins.  Sam looked cute but ridiculous.  Rhonda felt her lips twitching.  She glanced at Dean.  Dean was staring at his brother, frowning.  He felt Rhonda’s gaze on him and turned to look at her.  She met Dean’s eyes, trying not to smile and failing.

Dean stared at her.  Then his own lips twitched.  He shrugged.

_(Sorry)_

Rhonda shook her head.

_(It’s…okay)_

And then they looked away from each other quickly, before either of them could laugh.  Turned their eyes back to Sam.

Sam was still hunting around in her drawer.  “D’you have any clean socks I c’n borrow?”

“Mine aren’t gonna fit you,” Rhonda said.  “No…wait.  I have a pair of Ezra’s that never got back to him.  Top middle drawer.”

Sam opened the drawer.  Located her ex-boyfriend’s socks and pulled them on.  “Thanks,” he said.  “My feet get cold easily.”

“Do you need a shirt too?” Rhonda asked him.  Sarcastically. 

“No,” Sam said.  “I c’n wear my tshirt, it’s still okay.”  And he picked up his white cotton tshirt, shrugging it over his head.

Then he looked at Rhonda and Dean, both staring at him.  “I’m okay now,” he said.  “You c’n keep on going.”  And gestured at them to continue.  Generously.

They looked at him.  Then looked at each other.  And started laughing, helplessly.

 _“What?”_ Sam asked.  He sounded indignant.

Rhonda looked at him, laughing.  She wiped her eyes.  “Sam-“ she said.

“Yeah?”

“You go sit there,” Rhonda said.  And pointed to her desk chair, on the other side of the room.  “Sit there and stop talking.”

Sam frowned.  “But-“

 _“Sam!”_    This was Rhonda and Dean together. 

“What?”

“Go sit down over there,” Dean said.  “Like she said.  And be quiet.”

“But-“

“Sam,” and Dean’s voice, firm now.  “You’ve had your turn.  Now sit down and _shut up.”_

Sam flounced over to the chair.  He slouched down in it and turned to face Rhonda and Dean, scowling.  Crossed his arms in front of his chest.  “Well what if I wasn’t _done?”_   he asked, all sulky. 

“You’re done for now,” Dean said.  “Now you just watch.  And maybe learn somethin.”  And then he turned back to Rhonda.

They looked at each other.

“So you’re gonna fuck me huh?” Rhonda said eventually. 

Dean smiled.   “Yeah,” he said.  “You up for it?”

Rhonda smiled back.  “You promised you wouldn’t be too hard on me,” she said.  Teasing him a little.

“I won’t,”  Dean said.  And then stood up.  Pulled his sweatshirt up over his head.  And then his tshirt, a white cotton one like Sam’s.  He tossed both shirts to the floor.  “I’ll be careful, like I said.”  His hands were on his belt buckle now.

Rhonda was staring.  Wordless.

Dean looked at her as he was unbuckling his belt.  Paused.  “What?”

Rhonda didn’t say anything.  Couldn’t.

Because.

Shirtless Dean.  Holy _shit._

This could have been…truly…the most spectacular thing she’d ever seen in her _life._

She glanced over at Sam.  He was grinning at her.

He _knew_ what she was staring at, the little brat.

Rhonda narrowed her eyes at him.  Then looked back at Dean. 

And gazed.

At _this._

Dean staring back at her, frowning a bit now.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said absently.  “A-okay.”

Dean started unbuckling his belt again.  Unzipped his jeans, pulled them off.  Now just wearing a pair of soft cotton boxer shorts (like Sam’s) and white fuzzy athletic socks.

Okay, this should have looked a little silly.  And cute at the same time.  Adorable (like Sam).  But it didn’t. 

Dean still looked spectacular. 

Rhonda swallowed.  “You can keep your socks on,” she said.  “If you want.”

Dean looked at her.  “What?”

“If your feet get cold too,” Rhonda said helplessly.  “You know?”

 _“What?”_   Dean said.

Sam was laughing.

Dean turned to glare at him.  “Shut up doof, or you c’n wait downstairs.”   He turned back to Rhonda.  “Um, no,” he said.  And he was pulling his socks off now.  “I’ve been wearin these all day, I should’ve taken them off earlier.  Surprised you can’t smell ’em from _here.”_

 _“I_ can,” Sam said.

Both Dean and Rhonda turned on him.  “ _Sam!”_   they snapped.   

 _“Shut up,_ I said!”  Dean added.  Glaring at his brother.

Sam raised his hands.  “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.  Jesus.”

Dean turned back to Rhonda.  His hands were on the waistband of his boxers.  Rhonda waited, expectantly. 

Dean paused.  Looked at her.  Then incredibly, he _blushed,_ going a deep red.  A flush, spreading over his whole body.  “I can’t do this with you watchin,” he muttered.  “C’n you close your eyes?”

Rhonda smiled at him.  She felt very tender towards him suddenly.  “Okay,” she said softly.  Then lay back down and closed her eyes.  Put her forearm over her face.

She heard Dean rustling around.  A crackle of plastic.  Then Sam’s voice.  “You’ve got it upside down.”

And Dean’s voice, _“_ Jesus _, shut up,_ Sam!”  More rustling.

Rhonda smiled under her arm.

Then a weight on the mattress.  Dean joining her.

“You ready?” Rhonda asked.  She didn’t open her eyes.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Can I open my eyes now?” Rhonda asked.

“No,” Dean said.  “Lemme put it in you, first.”

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  Waited.  Dean’s hands on her knees.  “C’n you spread your legs, Rhonda?” he asked.

Rhonda opened her legs silently.  She was starting to feel tense. 

Dean’s hands between her legs.  “Open up a little bit more,” Dean whispered.

“Okay,” Rhonda whispered back.  She opened her legs up wider.  The cool air, again.

And now Dean’s fingers on her.  Two fingers at the entrance of her pussy, circling round.  “You’re still wet,” Dean said.  “That’s good.”

Rhonda took her arm away from her face.  Opened her eyes.  A glimpse of Dean kneeling between her legs, that superbly muscled torso, lightly dusted with golden freckles, those broad, hard shoulders, those perfectly toned arms.  _Omigod._

Dean looked up.  Frowned.  “Close your eyes,” he said.

Rhonda closed her eyes.  “What’re you doing?” she said faintly.

“Checkin out the territory,” Dean said.  And those fingers, _in_ her now.  Feeling around.  Carefully, but not tentatively.  Getting right in there.  Rhonda grimaced.  “Dean, I’m-“

“Yeah?”

“Kinda sore,” Rhonda admitted.   “Sam really did a number on me.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I saw.”  And his fingers, gently probing.  “But I think we still got somethin left.”

And suddenly his thumb, placed squarely on her clit.

 _“Oh!”_   Rhonda was arched up off the bed.

“Yeah…” There was a smile in Dean’s voice.  _“There_ we go.”  And then that strong thumb, pressing down on her, massaging her clit.  _Expertly._

“Oh _fuck!”_   Rhonda shrieked.  She was bouncing off the bed.  She clutched at Dean’s wrist with both hands.  Hard.

“Ouch, hey!”  Dean said.  But his thumb, continuing to circle.

“Dean!”  Rhonda shrieked.  She was writhing.

“Easy, easy,” Dean said.  “Don’t break my wrist there sweetheart, you’ve got a grip like a linebacker.”  And now his two fingers, up inside her.  And his thumb, circling, pressing down.  _Pressing._

_“OH!”_

“Yeah…” Dean said.  And his fingers, swirling around inside her, sliding around, deep inside her pussy now.  Stroking the walls of her pussy, slick with juice.  “Still somethin left,” Dean said.  “Sammy didn’t get it all.”  And then his thumb again.  Pressing down.

_“OHHHH!”_

Dean was laughing.  _“Like_ that, huh?”

 _“Fuck_ you!”  Rhonda moaned.  But she’d arched off the bed like he’d just given her an electric shock.  Which was pretty much what it felt like.

“Easy now,” Dean whispered.   “You c’n take it.”  And his thumb, rubbing down on her, so perfectly.

“Oh, oh…” And Rhonda was shuddering, trying not to fly apart under that merciless touch, clutching at Dean’s wrist helplessly.

“God, Dean, what’re you _doin_ to her?”  Sam’s voice.

“Watch ‘n’ learn little brother,” Dean said.  His voice was smug. 

“Where’d you pick _that_ up?”  Sam sounded sulky.

“Here ‘n’ there,” Dean said.  “It’s generally a matter of payin attention.  But seems like you’ve figured that out already.  But hey, take a look at _this.”_

And then he… _pinched_ her.  _Pinched_ her clit.  And rubbed it slickly, rapidly, between his finger and thumb.

Rhonda, shrieking.  But then she _dug_ her fingers into Dean’s wrist.

“ _Ouch!”_   Dean said.  “Whoa!”  He stopped.

Rhonda had had enough.  “Dean-“ she said.  Through her teeth.  “Either fuck me already or…I’m _killing you!”_   And she dug her fingers into his wrist again.  _Hard._

“Yeow!” Dean said.  “Okay, okay.  Let _go,_ Jesus.”  Rhonda let go.  “God,” Dean said.  “I’ve got bruises.”

 _“Good!”_   Rhonda snapped.

Dean laughed.  Then he was kneeling up again, between her legs.  Rhonda felt him positioning himself.  A bit awkwardly.

“Dean,” she whispered.  “Do you-“

“Shhh,” he said.  “Jesus, you’re worse than _Sam_ for talkin at the wrong time.”

Huh?

“What-“ Rhonda began, but now Dean was sliding into her.   And she forgot what she was going to say.

Because Dean was large _too._

“Omigod,” Rhonda whispered.  Her head had fallen back.

And now Dean was moving in her, carefully, deeply.  He’d put himself very close to her, his whole body covering hers.  “How’s that?” he whispered.  “You good?”  And moving inside of her.  Deeply.  Perfectly.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “I’m good.”   She was shuddering.  She arched up, pressing her breasts against Dean’s chest.  Put one hand on the back of his head.  “I’m _so_ good,” she whispered.

She felt Dean pause.  But then he put his face into her throat.  And started moving again inside her.  Carefully.  Perfectly.  Taking his time.

“How is it for _you?”_   Rhonda whispered.  She was trembling.  “You good too?”  She felt Dean smile.

That brush of Dean’s lips, on her throat.  Rhonda closed her eyes.

“…Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m just fine.”  And moving in her gently, but with a building rhythm.

Rhonda smiled at that.  “Fine,” she repeated.  “Well…I’m glad you’re _fine,_ pretty boy.”  And then she wrapped her legs around Dean’s waist.  Pressed a kiss into the side of his head.  “My pretty boy,” she whispered.  And with her arms around his shoulders now, hugging Dean tight.

“…Yours, huh?” Dean said.  And his voice was quiet.  Neutral.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered against his hair.  “Mine.  I’m crazy about you.”  And then she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.  Winced.  Had she _really_ just said that?

Dean kept moving in her gently.  Rhonda held him with her arms and legs, wordless now.  Shy with him, suddenly.

“Crazy enough about me to fuck my little brother?” Dean asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  She kept her eyes shut.

“You enjoy that?” Dean asked her.  And moving in her a little more strongly.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “It was awesome.”

“Turned you on, huh?” Dean said.  And thrusting into her, harder now.  “You fuckin him…with me watchin…”

“Yeah…” Rhonda whispered.  And now she could barely speak past the pleasure, building.  Dean’s cock in her, so hard and long.  Oh god.

“Pretty good payoff for you,” Dean said.  And fucking her, harder.  “After all those weeks of teasin him…teasin _me…”_   He was starting to sound breathless.

“Yeah…” Rhonda said.  She was gasping, clutching at him.  “Sorry.”

Dean laughed.  “You’re not sorry,” he said.  And fucking her with this smooth, thrusting rhythm now.  Going _deep._

“No,” Rhonda gasped.  “Guess not.”

“Kind of a bitch, aren’t you?” Dean said.  And fucking her.  “Guess you ‘n’ Sam have that in common.”

“Wh- what?” Rhonda said.

But Dean’s cock, _hitting_ her now, deep inside.  Just right, just like Sam had done.  Oh god.  How did him and Sam _both_ know how to do the same damn thing?  She moaned.

“Never mind,” Dean said.   And fucking her, _hard_ now, thrusting deep.  And Rhonda, arching up, _meeting_ him, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her hands buried in his hair.  Her mouth, open against his hair, his skin, any part of Dean that she could find.  Her breasts, pressed up against him.

Dean was whispering in her ear.  “Next time I’m watchin you…do it with Sam…I’m gonna let him put you up on your hands and knees…’n’ fuck you from behind, doggie style, like he wanted.”

Rhonda was shuddering.  “You’d like that, huh?” she whispered.  And then _licked_ him.  Put her lips on Dean’s earlobe and mouthed him, gently.  Licked his ear.  She heard Dean’s hiss of breath.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  “I’d like that a lot.”

“Watchin me…take your brother’s cock…” Rhonda whispered into Dean’s ear.  “My ass in the air…”  She felt Dean tense.  And then he thrust into her, _hard._

 _“Oh!”_   Rhonda gasped.  “Ow…Dean, you said you’d be careful with me!”

“…Oh yeah,” Dean said.  “Right.  Sorry about that.”  And slowing down, moving in her more gently.  “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  But then putting her hands on Dean’s face.  Bringing his mouth over to her, kissing his mouth.  Wrapping her legs around him tightly, trapping him.  And her eyes open now, staring at him.  Staring into those green eyes, so close to hers, staring back at her.  Those leaf green eyes framed with long golden eyelashes, perhaps the most beautiful sight on this planet since the dawn of time.

_Dean._

But.

“You say I’m a bitch,” Rhonda said.   And receiving that green gaze, drowning in it.  “But you can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that?”

Dean laughed, his eyes warming up.  “Yeah, guess you’re right.”  And Rhonda grinned.  And now they were rocking against each other easily, both grinning.

“What do you mean _sometimes?”_   Sam’s voice.  “Try _all the time.”_

Rhonda peered at Sam over Dean’s shoulder.  And Dean craned his neck, glaring back at his brother.

 _“Sam,”_ they both said.  “ _Shut up!”_

“Well I’m just sayin-“ Sam began.

“Sam!” Rhonda hissed.  “One more word out of you and you’re going downstairs!  I mean it!”

Sam started to speak.  Rhonda glared at him.  Then, still glaring at him, she drew a line across her closed mouth and made the sign of locking it and throwing away the key.

Sam rolled his eyes.  But he didn’t say anything else.  Subsided into the chair, staring silently at his brother and Rhonda, his arms crossed.

“Wow,” Dean said.  He was gazing at her now, with new respect.  “That _worked.”_

“Uh huh,” Rhonda said.  And then she smiled.  “So…we were in the middle of something…” she said. 

“Yeah…” Dean replied.  “What was that again?”  He was smiling back.

“I think you were trying to fuck the bitch out of me,” Rhonda said.  And she was grinning now.

“Oh yeah,” Dean said.  And he was grinning too.  “Was it workin?”

“Not really,” Rhonda said.  And then “- _Oh!”_   And her head was back.

Because Dean had thrust into her _hard._

And again.  And again.

“Oh!”Rhonda gasped.  “ _Oh!”_

“How about _now?”_   Dean asked.  And fucking her, deeply, _expertly,_ getting right in there.  Rhonda had wrapped her legs tight around his waist again.  Holding onto his body, Dean right up next to her, skin to skin, _driving_ into her. 

Dean’s voice.  “Rhonda?”   And fucking her, _impaling_ her.

“Gettin there,” Rhonda gasped.  She’d shut her eyes again.  The pleasure, building up, twisting up inside of her… “Don’t stop,” Rhonda whispered.

“Oh I won’t,” Dean said.  He was speaking tightly now, with difficulty.  “I’m takin you all the way-“  And then fucking her, _fucking her._

“Oh _god,”_   Rhonda whispered.   She was shuddering helplessly.  “Oh Dean…”

Dean didn’t answer.  He was shuddering too, his whole body shuddering as he drove into her, his breath sounding harshly. 

“Oh, _oh!”_   And Rhonda crying out, ecstasy breaking over her in waves, clutching at Dean like she was drowning, and Dean’s face pressed against her now, Dean shuddering against her, Dean silent except for his harsh breaths against her skin.

Now the two of them lying there, plastered against each other. 

Rhonda’s hands were on Dean’s sweaty back.  She could feel the rise and fall of his ribs against her. 

“Wow.”  Sam’s voice.  “That was _awesome.”_

Rhonda opened her eyes.  Looked up.  Sam was standing beside the bed, looking down at her and Dean.  His eyes were bright. 

“C’n you ‘n’ me go again?”  Sam asked.  “I think I’m ready.”

Rhonda groaned.  “Are you _kidding me?”_   she asked him. 

Sam looked confused.  “But it’s my turn again,” he said.  “And Dean said I could do you from behind this time.  Remember?”  And then he looked at her.

Rhonda, observing this.  Sam’s eyes on her, focusing in.  She swallowed.  “Dean,” she said.  “Tell your brother to back off.”

“Sam.”  Dean was speaking into her throat.  He didn’t raise his head.  “Back off.”

“But-“

Dean raised his head.  Looked over his shoulder at Sam.  “Back off,” he said.  “Give it a rest for a bit, okay?”  He put his face back into Rhonda’s throat.  “You c’n do her later.”

Rhonda punched him.

“Hey!” Dean said.

“Thanks a lot!” she snapped.  Then tried to wriggle out from under him.  Unsuccessfully.   “Dean,” Rhonda said.  Struggling.  “Get off of me!”

Dean grumbled.  But then levered himself up, letting Rhonda slide out from under him.  She stood up.  Turned to look down at Dean’s naked body, lying sprawled out, collapsed again face down on her bed. 

That smooth muscled back, those shoulders, those legs, that _butt._

Oh my. 

Rhonda observed this for a moment longer.  Then turned to face Sam.  Who was standing there in her too-small sweatpants, with a noticeable boner. 

“You look ridiculous,” Rhonda said to him.

Sam grinned at her.  “You want me to get naked again too?” he asked.

Rhonda considered this.  Maybe not the best idea at the moment.  “No,” she said.  “We’re taking a break.  I need to…er…”

Sam, smiling.  “Replenish?” he asked her. 

Rhonda smacked him.  “Don’t get mouthy with me,” she replied.  “I’m not gonna put up with it, I _mean_ _it,_ Sam!”

“Good luck with _that.”_   Dean’s voice, from the bed.  Rhonda turned back to him.  Dean had rolled over on one side, looking up at her and Sam.  Rhonda took in the sight.  Dean, lying on her bed, his eyes all relaxed and satisfied looking.  She smiled.

He smiled back.  “Sam,” he said, "we’re takin a break.  Rhonda needs a rest.  And I think I could use that shower.”  He looked at Rhonda.  “Can I?”

“Sure,” she said.  And then glanced over at Sam, who was watching his brother quietly.   That lean, sharply carved young face, those bright, changeable eyes, now glinting golden as they turned to her again. 

Sam. 

Dean, leaving her alone with him. 

“I’m coming with you,” Rhonda said to Dean.  “I could use a shower too.”

Dean looked surprised.  But then said, “Okay.”  And got himself up, standing before her in all his blonde, naked, sweaty glory.   Rhonda stared at this, swallowing.

_Oh._

But then as Rhonda watched, Dean peeled the condom from his cock.  And… _held_ it out to her. 

“You gotta garbage can?” he asked.

Rhonda looked down at this, Dean’s hand, holding the used condom out to her expectantly.  After a moment, she pointed towards the little trash bin beside her desk.  “Over there,” she said.  Then added, “and you c’n throw it away _yourself.”_

Dean looked sheepish.  He went and tossed the condom in the trash bin, then came back to stand beside her and Sam.  “Was I bein an asshole?” he asked.

Rhonda was grinning, she couldn’t help it.  “No,” she said.  “Not at all.” 

Dean, smiling down at her.  “Sorry.”

And Rhonda now standing between him and Sam, these two tall, magnificent male creatures, the blonde beauty and his silky dark haired, magnetic younger brother with those dangerous eyes.

It was too much.  She closed her own eyes.  And concentrated on not being dizzy.

“You okay?” Sam’s voice.  And his hand now stroking her shoulder.  Gently.  Like Rhonda was a kitten.

“…Yeah,” Rhonda replied.   And opened her eyes, smiling at him. 

Sam.There was a wild edge to him, no doubt.  Edgy.  Uncertain.  Sam was wild. 

Uncharted territory.  But now stroking her, so gently.  Back to being a kid again.  Her _Sam._

But Sam was looking sulky now.  “So what’m _I_ supposed to do?” he asked.  “Just _wait here,_ while you guys are latherin up?”  And standing there all indignant.

 _Just_ like a kid.

“Why’n’t you get yourself something to eat?” Rhonda said to him. 

Sam brightened magically.  “Yeah!” he said.  “I could do that.”

Rhonda smiled at him.  “There’s lasagna in the fridge,” she said.  “You’ll see it, the dish under the aluminum foil.  You c’n have that.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “I’ll finish it off.”  He turned away, heading towards the stairs.  Spoke over his shoulder to Dean.  “Enjoy the shower…it was awesome.”

“What- wait!” Rhonda called after him.  “What d’you mean _‘finish it off?’_   There was a whole _pan_ of lasagna in there!  My mom just made it this afternoon!”

“Oh, I ate half of it already,” Sam said.  He was clattering down the stairs.  “While I was waitin for y’all to get back from your _date._   I was hungry.”

He was in the kitchen now.  Rhonda heard the fridge door open.  She looked over at Dean.  Wordlessly.

He was grinning at her.  “Welcome to my world,” he said.  Shrugged.

“Does he… _always_ help himself to stuff?” Rhonda asked.

“Yup,” Dean said.  And grinning.  “Pretty much.” 

“And you…let him,” Rhonda said.  This wasn’t a question.

Dean looked serious now.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Pretty much.”  And then he met her eyes.  “With Sammy you gotta _prioritize,”_   he said.  “Pick your battles.  But I think you already figured that out.  Haven't you?”

After a moment Rhonda nodded. 

Dean nodded too.  Then gestured towards her bed.  “You want to do this, _”_ he said, “you’re gonna have to do _that._   A  _lot._   So get used to it.”

Rhonda looked at him.  At Dean standing there, so serious.  So serious and beautiful.  And naked.

She stepped forward.  Put her arms around Dean’s neck.  Stood up on tiptoes, brushing her belly against his.  Her pussy, brushing against him.  Rhonda smiled, looking up into those beautiful green eyes, now staring down at her.  Dean’s hands had found her butt.  And she could feel him _feeling_  it now.  Pleasurably.  With enjoyment.

“I could get used to it,” Rhonda murmured.  “I could get _real_ used to it.”  And _leaning_ against Dean now, her breasts pressed up against him.

“Oh yeah?” Dean murmured.  He’d bent his head towards her.  And his hands, curving around her butt.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.   Her mouth, lifting up to his mouth.

_Dean._

The sound of the microwave oven from the kitchen.  And then Sam’s voice, calling up the stairs.  “Rhonda?”

Rhonda sighed.  _“What?”_ she called back, over Dean’s shoulder.

“C’n I finish off the milk?” Sam asked.

“No!” Rhonda replied.  “We need that for breakfast!  There’s some V8 juice there, you c’n have that if you’re thirsty.”

“V _8_ juice!” Sam called back.  “Who _drinks_ that?  Ucghh!”

Dean spoke up.  “Sam, it’s that or water.  Stop complainin.”

 _"Fine,”_ Sam replied.  Then they heard him rustling around, a cupboard door shutting.  Dean turned back to Rhonda.  He was smiling again.  “Let’s go have that shower,” he said.  “It’ll be my first in like, _months.”_

Rhonda, smiling back.  She stepped out of his embrace then gestured towards the bathroom.  “After you,” she said.

Dean didn’t move immediately.  He looked at her.  Then held out his hand. 

Rhonda stared at this.  Dean’s outstretched hand.  She felt tears rising again.

_(I’ll be careful with you)_

Dean, saying that to her.

She was trusting him on that.  Because she could really get hurt, here.

“I’ll be careful with you too,” Rhonda said to him.  Quietly.  Hopefully.

Dean looked at her.  Those green eyes, suddenly raw.  And then he said,

“And Sam too.”

Rhonda smiled, with some difficulty.  Because of the tears stinging her eyes.  Dean, the big brother.

“Yeah,” she said gently.  “And Sam too.  Don’t worry.”

Dean staring at her, his hand outstretched.  Silent now.  After a moment Rhonda reached out.  Put her hand in his. 

Those strong fingers, grasping hers firmly.  And Dean’s eyes, the expression in them as he looked at her.  Contemplative.  No longer filled with pain. 

And then he…

 _smiled,_ just slightly.  Not quite a smile.  And now in his eyes a quiet acknowledgement. 

Of her presence here, in the room with him.  

And his quiet expression, not quite wonder.

_(What do I see)_

And Rhonda stood there.  Waiting.

“Okay,” Dean said eventually.  His eyes on her.

_(I’m trusting you on that)_

Rhonda, seeing this.  But then she looked away. Looked down towards their clasped hands. 

She squeezed Dean’s hand.

And Dean just standing there. 

But then he ran his thumb over her hand, gently. 

Rhonda waiting, silent.

And after a moment, she felt Dean’s fingers tighten.  He squeezed her hand back. 

She waited.

Dean just standing there, holding her hand. 

But then he smiled at her, again slightly.  Not quite a smile.

And turned and walked towards the bathroom, still holding her hand.


	44. Chapter 44

Sam was enjoying having a girlfriend.  Especially going over to her house.  

He hadn’t really thought he’d enjoy _her house_ so much.  I mean, it had been all the other stuff about Rhonda that had been on his mind – her house just a convenient place (the _only_ place, really) to get it all done.

But after that first night – after he and Rhonda and Dean had fucked and showered and then eaten a late night snack on her bed (Sam had brought the pan of lasagna as well as a half container of chocolate ice cream he’d found in the freezer up to Rhonda’s room and all three of them had ended up sitting cross legged on Rhonda’s bed, eating, sharing the same spoon and fork, with Sam feeding mouthfuls to himself and then Rhonda, spooning lasagna and then ice cream into her –with Rhonda laughing reluctantly and _also_ telling Sam he’d better not goddamn mess up her bed) and then afterwards, getting naked again, with Sam fucking Rhonda from behind like promised, fucking her with _care,_ Rhonda moaning and wriggling towards the end, pushing that round butt of hers backwards against him deliciously, and Sam so pleasurably conscious of Dean’s eyes on this, on _him_ , as he drove into Rhonda, so smooth and deep.

And then Dean’s hands on him, moving him aside, almost before Sam had finished _coming_ even, setting Sam aside on the bed and then grabbing Rhonda, flipping her over, Rhonda’s gasp of surprise ( _“-Dean!”_ ) and Dean entering her, rather roughly, Rhonda protesting at first _(“What the-“)_ but then Dean covering her mouth with his own, and fucking her, fucking her _hard,_ one hand diving between her legs to find her clit and Rhonda shrieking at this, the sound muffled by Dean’s mouth and then Rhonda wrapping her slim strong legs and arms around Dean and _meeting_ him, thrusting up against him, moaning fiercely into Dean’s mouth and Sam watching this, his brother and this girl, possibly the two hottest people on the planet, going at each other like animals, and seriously, it was like watching a porn movie, it was like Sam had somehow created a porn movie here, with him as director and actor and audience, all mixed up into one thing.

Awesome.

And he knew why Dean had taken Rhonda so hard like that.  After watching Sam fuck her.

On her hands and knees, her butt turned up in the air, in the same position that Sam would assume for _Dean_.  That fuck position Dean liked so much.

Dean watching this and then taking Rhonda hard and fast. 

Because he was a heartbeat away from taking _Sam._   Giving Sam serious payback for the _show_ that Sam had forced Dean to watch, now and earlier, Sam’s _performance,_ for Dean’s eyes specifically.

Sam knew how Dean’s mind worked, alright.  But payback like that would have to wait until him and Dean were alone.  And Sam was looking forward to it.  Kind of.

_(And also…Dean had seen what Sam had wanted him to see…he’d seen Sam using his cock…that image would be in Dean’s mind now)_

But anyways, so Rhonda and Dean going at each other, eventually moaning, shuddering and collapsing onto each other, exhausted finally.  And Sam, letting himself flop down beside them, beside Rhonda that is (because it was too dangerous to lay himself down beside his brother), sandwiching Rhonda in tightly between himself and Dean.  He turned on his side, snuggling up against her, sliding an arm around her waist.  Felt his hand brush Dean’s belly.  Sam smiled.  Closed his eyes.

Rhonda’s voice.  “Sam.” 

“…Yeah?” 

“Take the dishes downstairs.”

“… _Now?”_

 _“Yes,_ now.  I’m not sleeping with dirty dishes in my room.”

Sam groaned.  But levered himself off the bed and gathered up the lasagna pan, cutlery and empty ice cream container. 

“And turn the light off please,” Rhonda said to him as he was leaving the room.

“Yes Rhonda,” Sam replied.  He flicked off the bedroom light then padded naked downstairs and put the dishes on the kitchen counter.  Padded upstairs again.  Paused in the doorway to Rhonda’s room, observing her and his brother, two shadowy forms on the bed, under the covers now, Dean lying on his side facing Rhonda with one of Rhonda’s pillows bunched up under his head, one of his feet sticking out from beneath the covers.  Sam smiled.  _That_ sight was familiar.  Rhonda was lying on her back, her eyes closed.  After a moment, Sam slipped in beside her.  He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her.   Rhonda’s hair, this spread of long, damp curls, covering the second pillow.  Sam moved her hair out of the way.  Rhonda opened her eyes.  “What’re you doing?”

“Makin room,” Sam said.  “You gotta move over.”

Rhonda grumbled.  But she shifted sideways, giving Sam another sliver of space.  Not quite enough.  Sam put his hands on her and gently pushed her further towards Dean.  Who was lying there solidly, like a wall.  “Move over Dean,” Sam said.  “We need more room.”

Now _Dean_ was grumbling.  “Sammy – I’m gonna fall off.”

“Your bed’s too small,” Sam said to Rhonda.

Her eyes turned towards him.  He saw them glinting in the dark.  “No it isn’t,” she said.  “This is a _double_ bed.  Fits _two_ people just _fine.”_

“Yeah,” Sam said, “but that’s not what we’re workin with here.  C’mon guys…move _over.”_

After a moment Dean moved over.  Grudgingly.  Sam rolled his eyes.  Then lay down, sliding himself tightly against Rhonda’s naked body, falling against her with the feel of her soft shape, propped up against Dean, squashed against him pleasurably.  The mattress bounced gently as the three of them shuffled around, adjusting themselves to the cramped space.  Especially Sam.

“God Sam,” Rhonda grumbled.  “You’re like going to bed with a horse.”

“You’ll be okay,” Sam replied absently.  He was burrowing into her bed.  It felt wonderful – the mattress firm and soft at the same time.  Deliciously bouncy.  A far cry from the thin sofabed Dean and he had been sleeping on lately, or any other of the countless motel room beds, or spare beds/couches that Sam had crashed on in his life as John’s kid, over the years.  This mattress felt like what he imagined _those_ mattresses must feel like, those white, shiny ones you saw advertised on TV.  “How long have you had this bed?” he asked Rhonda.

“Since grade nine,” Rhonda said.  “My mom got both me ‘n’ her new beds that year.  Christmas presents.”

“It’s _awesome,”_ Sam said.  He’d tucked his feet into the covers (also wonderful – such silky clean sheets, and this quilt, so light and warm).  “Your blankets are awesome too,” he said.  “What kind of quilt is this?”

“Feather,” Rhonda replied.  “And the pillows too.”

“Princess.”  Dean’s dry voice.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  Her voice was also dry.  “That’s me, alright.”

“Mmmm,” Sam said happily.  His head was sinking deliciously into the soft, puffy pillow.  It felt like heaven, the half of it he had access to that is, with the other half taken up by Rhonda (and her hair).  Sam burrowed his head further back into the pillow.  Then wrapped both his arms around it and rolled over, luxuriously.  Buried his face down deep.

And snuggled his body into the feather quilt, which was now tucked snugly around his legs.

 _“Hey!”_   Two indignant voices, to his right.

Sam barely noticed.  He was ready to settle down to some serious snoozing.  It had been a long day.

But then Rhonda yanking on that awesome quilt, which had surrounded Sam like a warm cloud.  “Sam –you’re _hogging_ everything!”

“Mmmph,” Sam said.  He shifted slightly.  Rhonda started trying to unwrap him.  Unsuccessfully.

“…He always like this?” Rhonda asked.  She sounded annoyed.  And breathless.

“Yup,” Dean said.  His voice was resigned.

A sigh from Rhonda.  Then she said, “We’ve got a spare quilt ‘n’ pillow in the linen closet.  I’m gonna get them.  C’n you let me up, Dean?”

A soft grumble from Dean. 

 _“Fine.”_   Rhonda’s voice.   “I’m climbing over you then.”  A shuffle, behind Sam’s back.  Then giggles.  And now Dean’s lazy voice.  “Hey, what’s _that_ doin up there?”  And Rhonda’s voice, _“Dean!”_   And the sound of a hand, lightly patting flesh.  Sam smiled without opening his eyes.

Now Rhonda’s feet, hitting the floor.   “I’ll be right back,” she said.  She left.

Sam opened his eyes.  He turned around to face Dean, who was still lying on his side.  They gazed at each other silently.

“I love you,” Sam whispered, after a moment.  The glimmer of Dean’s eyes, in the dark room.

“I love you too,” Dean said.  “Even though you’re gonna _get it.”_

“Don’t be _too_ hard on me, daddy,” Sam whispered.  He saw Dean’s lips part.  Sam smiled and reached forward thoughtlessly.

Dean grabbed his hand.  _“Sam,”_ he hissed.  “Stop!”

“Sorry,” Sam breathed.  He was achingly hard again, incredibly, despite his exhaustion. 

For Dean, his love.

“You shouldn’t be mad at me,” Sam said to him.  He’d curled his fingers around Dean’s.  “This is really all _your_ fault.”

Dean snorted.  “Sure,” he said.   But his grip on Sam’s hand, like iron.  Sam smiled.  He could tell Dean was struggling.  To hold himself back.

“It _is,”_ Sam said to him.  Murmuring now.

“Is what?”  Rhonda was back in the room, half hidden behind a pile of puffy stuff.  Sam looked up.  Dean had released his hand and rolled over onto his back, putting his own hands behind his head.  His eyes were on Rhonda.  Sam turned to face her too.

“I was tellin Dean this was all his fault,” Sam said to her casually.

“Uh huh,” Rhonda replied.  She’d dropped the third pillow on the bed between Sam and Dean, effectively separating them.  And now spreading the second quilt out, covering Dean’s body.  “Like _you_ had nothing to do with it,” she said.

“Well…not as much as you’d think,” Sam replied.  Rhonda was clambering over Dean, sliding herself back into the bed between him and Sam.  “Say…” Sam said, “do I get to keep this whole quilt to _myself?”_

“Yes,” Rhonda said.  “I’m not fighting you all night for it.  Dean and I’ll share the other one.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “But I wanna snuggle with you too, remember?  You gotta let me in.”   He inserted himself under the second quilt, finding Rhonda’s warm skin.  Put one arm up and around her head, enclosing Rhonda under his arm the same way that Dean would always do with him.  Boxing Rhonda in.

And felt her react, shifting herself around restlessly, her body colliding against the warm walls created by his and Dean’s bodies.  But eventually she settled down.  And now a hand creeping across Sam’s belly, ending up between his legs.  Patting his cock, which was still hard.  “What’s _this_ Sammy?” Rhonda murmured.

“That’s a raincheck,” Sam murmured back.   “For tomorrow.”

Rhonda laughed.  And Sam smiled.  His arm, curled snugly around the top of Rhonda’s warm head.  And now his hand coming up against _Dean’s_ head which was resting on the pillow on Rhonda’s other side.  Sam smiled again.  And stroked his fingers into Dean’s hair, gently.

Dean shifted around.

“…You okay Dean?” Rhonda asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  His voice sounded strained.  “I’m fine.”  Sam felt Dean’s head move as he turned over onto his stomach.  But his brother’s rough, short hair still under Sam’s fingers, the feel of Dean’s hair, so different from the feeling of Rhonda’s long curly hair.

This incredible male person and this incredible female person, both quiet under Sam’s touch.  Awesome.

“Put your hand on me,” Rhonda whispered softly.  To Dean.

After a moment Dean put a hand on her breast.  “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “Like that.”

“Okay,” Dean whispered back.  And then silence.

“…Goodnight,” Rhonda said into the dark room.  Dean didn’t answer.

“Goodnight,” Sam murmured back.   He’d closed his eyes.  But he was stroking Dean’s hair, secretly.  Dean didn’t move, didn’t say anything.  But Sam heard him breathing softly.  Relaxing finally under Sam's fingers, once it was clear that Sam wasn’t going to do anything but stroke his hair.

Sam smiled.  And let himself sink back into this wonderful bed, in this dark, comfortable room, with this prickly, strangely sweet girl and his beautiful brother, lying beside him.  The three of them quietly touching each other, in the dark.

And eventually sleeping.

The next day, Sam waking up slowly, staring up at the clean white ceiling with the pink glass overhead light, a bit confused at first.  Dim light seeping into the room from behind pink curtains.  Sam’s face was covered with some soft tickly stuff, getting into his nose.

Rhonda’s hair.

Sam blew the strands away from his face.  Then sat up.  Turned to look down at Rhonda and his brother, curled into each other under the second quilt, Rhonda’s head tucked under Dean’s chin, her face partially hidden, her hair dry now and spread out everywhere in a cloud of curls.  And Dean, _his_ face partially hidden by that cloud of hair too, a brush of dark blonde hair against a white, frilly pillowcase.

Sam stared at the sight quietly.  And now Dean’s eyes opening, dark green in the dim room.  Meeting Sam’s eyes.

“What you doin?” Dean’s voice, rough with sleep.

“I’m gettin up,” Sam replied after a moment.  “Gonna have a shower.”

“You like that shower, huh.”  Rhonda’s voice, muffled against Dean’s skin.

Sam grinned.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You guys c’n sleep for a while longer.  It’s only seven thirty, we got a couple hours before we got to start worryin about your mom, right?  But after my shower let’s have breakfast.”  He paused expectantly.  Rhonda and Dean were silent.  “Okay?” Sam asked.  “Dean?”

Dean grumbled.

“Bacon ‘n’ eggs,” Sam added.  “Like you promised.”  He was standing beside the bed now.  “Okay?  Dean?”

“Why can’t you get up like this on a _school_ mornin?” Dean grumbled.  “Seems like it’s always me gettin _you_ up.”

“Cause _today’s_ new and excitin,” Sam replied.  He was on his way to the bathroom.  He heard Rhonda laugh behind him.  Sam smiled.  But then remembered something.  “Say…Rhonda?”  He was back in the bedroom doorway, looking down at those two lumps on the bed. 

“…Yeah?”

“C’n I use a…er…razor?”

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  “You’ll find new ones in the bathroom drawer, left of the sink.”

“Okay,” Sam said happily.  And back on his way towards Rhonda’s shower and hot water heaven.

And later, the three of them in Rhonda’s kitchen, with Dean at the stove, turning sizzling bacon with a fork and Sam and Rhonda sitting at the kitchen table.  Laughing.  Because Rhonda was sitting on Sam’s knee.  Reluctantly.

“C’mon Sam,” Rhonda said.  “You’ve had your thrill.  Lemme up now.”

“No,” Sam said.  His arm was clamped around Rhonda’s waist.  “I’m not ready for you to get up just yet.”

Rhonda was laughing.  “Sam…jeez…I’m not exactly a lightweight.”

“I c’n handle you,” Sam said comfortably.  “You’re good.”  Dean had turned to look at him.  Sam met his eyes.  “I c’n handle a lot heavier than you,” Sam said.  Staring at his brother.  Dean gazed back at him silently.  Then turned back to the stove.  Sam turned to look at Rhonda, taking in the sheer, spectacular _prettiness_ of her, all nestled against him.  All _that,_ just there to be enjoyed.  He bent his head, nuzzling into Rhonda’s neck.  Started nibbling and licking at her.

Rhonda, shrieking.  “Sam, you’re tickling!”  She was trying to get up.  Sam held her down easily.  “Sam!  You’re gonna give me a hickie!”  She was batting at him.

“Sorry,” Sam said.  Now nibbling at her throat lightly, his lips gently brushing the soft skin.  But Rhonda still shrieking.  “Sam!  _Cut it out!  I mean it!”_

“Okay,” Sam said.  He bent his head, nuzzling his face into her breasts.   “That better?”  Closed his mouth over a nipple, standing up sharply under her thin cotton tshirt.  Sucked it back, his tongue fluttering.

 _“Yigh!”_   Rhonda was trying to get up again, futilely.  “Dean!” she gasped.  “Rescue me!”

“Sam,” Dean was turning the bacon.  “Lay off, c’mon.”

“I’m hungry,” Sam said.  “It’s makin me restless.”  But he relaxed his grip on Rhonda.  She got up off his knee.  Then smacked him over the head.

“Hey!”

“You watch yourself, kiddo.  Don’t piss me off.”  Rhonda standing there, her hands on her hips.  And that foot of hers, getting ready to tap at him.

Sam smiled at her.  “Okay.”

Rhonda was smiling back at him, rather sourly.  “You’re not too worried about that, are you?”

“Nope,” Sam said.  “Cause I know you’ll forgive me.  Eventually.”  And then he smiled at her, _sweetly._   And blinked at her.

Rhonda rolled her eyes.  Sat down at the table across from him.  Said to Dean, “Your brother’s just _asking_ for another smack.”

“Oh, _I_ know,” Dean said.  He’d laid the bacon strips out on a plate covered with a paper towel.  Wiped down the frying pan.  Now he was stirring eggs in a bowl with a fork, whisking them around briskly.   Sam, watching this.  He noticed Rhonda’s eyes were on Dean too.  Then Rhonda glanced at him.  And smiled at Sam covertly.  Sam smiled back.

Dean cooking.  It was a wonderful sight.  Awesomely hot.  Dean had no idea.

The ding of the toaster.  “Sam, get the toast,” Dean said.  “’N’ butter it for us.  ‘N’ get plates.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He was up, getting plates out of the cupboard.  “What kind of jam you got, Rhonda?”

“All kinds,” Rhonda replied.  “Blueberry, strawberry, raspberry.  Marmalade.  We even got lingonberry, somewhere.  My mom’s kind of a jam freak.”

“Wow,” Sam said.  And he spoke with deep feeling.  “I love this place.”

So yeah. 

Rhonda’s house. 

There was so much _stuff_ in it.

All this _stuff,_ for the purposes of the comfort of life.

Truly, truly awesome.

Eventually Rhonda told him where the spare key was (under the loose board, on the porch).  To stop Sam from breaking in constantly.

Because Sam was hanging out at Rhonda’s house now, every chance he could get (like whenever Rhonda’s mom was on shift…which seemed to be most of the time…Rhonda’s mom taking every shift available to help save up for Rhonda’s move to New York), Sam going over to Rhonda’s instead of to the library, whenever Dean was working and Sam wasn’t at school or at the diner to eat, wash dishes and tutor Jackson.

And Sam had become familiar with every room in Rhonda’s house and each room’s various items. 

Rhonda's living room.  A big, thirsty couch, a colour TV and a coffee table with embroidered coasters and a book of photographs of American National Parks.  A fireplace with pictures on the mantelpiece, school pictures of Rhonda, her mom’s nurse graduation photo, and a picture of Rhonda’s dad, serious in his policeman’s uniform with his police badge fastened to one corner of the picture frame.  A comfy armchair that matched the couch.  Lamps with creamy shades.  _Houseplants._   Sam would hang out on Rhonda’s couch, his feet up on the coffee table, doing his homework or reading and sometimes napping, waking up to the sound of Rhonda’s and Dean’s voices in the front hall.

Rhonda’s bathroom.  A _shower._   Fluffy towels.  Matching washcloths.  A bathmat.  A large mirror behind a clean white counter and a pair of white ceramic sinks, wiped shiningly clean.  Enough said.

Rhonda's basement.  Partially finished, with a laundry room and a little carpeted rec room.  Sam was doing his and Dean’s laundry here now, instead of going to the laundromat.  He’d load their dirty clothes into Rhonda’s washing machine then go back upstairs, flop down on the couch and listen to the distant rumble of the machine, its sound as soothing as waves on a beach.

And then the little rec room, with its ancient benchpress and set of weights, Rhonda’s dad’s, that her mom had hauled all the way back from Chicago with this idea that she would work out with them (she never did).  But Rhonda had started using the equipment when she’d turned herself into a track star, seeking a connection with her dead father who’d been a serious jock, apparently.   And now a pure bonus for Sam and Dean, both of them taking _full_ advantage of Rhonda’s basement gym, with her dad’s twenty year old equipment still better than what he and Dean had had to improvise with, all their years of growing up.

(And Rhonda loved having him and Dean work out in her basement.  There was almost always sex afterwards, _before_ showering, first Sam with Rhonda and then Dean, or the other way round, both him and Dean messing Rhonda’s sheets up royally with their workout sweat –and then Rhonda making Sam strip the bed afterwards and put the dirty sheets in the washing machine right away and then put _new_ sheets on her bed while she and Dean went and took a shower together and then collapsed on the couch to watch TV, beers in their hands, with Sam joining them as soon as he could, after his _own_ shower, grumbling at Rhonda and his brother, those two sprawled out lazy asses).

(But then flopping himself down on the couch, taking up as much room as possible…on _purpose_ …putting his head into Rhonda’s lap and helping himself to Dean’s beer.  And with Dean and Rhonda grumbling at _him_ now, but also smiling because, you know.  Sam, he was so adorable, even if he was all knees and elbows).  So that was okay.

And of course, the bedrooms, Rhonda’s room and her mom’s room.  Sam had started to explore Rhonda’s mom’s room but stopped (he knew Dean would be furious if he ever found out Sam had done that and Sam could just see Dean glaring at him silently until Sam gave in, put on his panties and asked for a spanking).  So he left Rhonda’s mom’s room alone, feeling righteous about it.

But _Rhonda’s_ room, that was fair game.

And Sam explored every inch of it.  And tried on her clothes (discreetly).  And snooped into all of her drawers, except for the locked one, which he left alone (again, feeling righteous).

Sam loved Rhonda’s room.  Its pinkness.  Its frilliness.  Its _girliness._   He found it funny that _Rhonda_ (who clearly prided herself on being kind of a badass), had such a girly room.  But Rhonda was touchingly pleased with it.  She’d explained, while giving Sam his tour like promised, that her and her mom had decorated it together over the years as kind of a thing they’d do together, and her mom loved girly things.  So Rhonda had them.  Pink curtains.  A white, frilly bedspread and frilly white pillows.  That puffy pink quilt and flowered pink and white sheets.  A fluffy pink throw rug with roses.  A white painted bureau, its drawers full of neatly folded clothes and on its surface, various girl items (like eyeshadow and nail polish and makeup brushes) arranged around a little white jewelry box with a ballet dancer figurine that turned to music. 

Et cetera.

Sam was spending a lot of time in Rhonda’s room.  Sometimes with Rhonda and Dean.  Sometimes with just Rhonda.  And sometimes alone.  And he really _enjoyed_ it.  This pretty, clean, beautifully organized room with a door that could close out the world (and Rhonda was a neat freak, she shared that quality with Dean and Dean and Sam’s dad, but unlike Sam’s family’s grim military orderliness, _Rhonda’s_ style of neat was a lot more comfortable.  _Homey_ ).

And there was something else that Sam really enjoyed about Rhonda’s room. 

The way Dean looked in it.

Dean’s hard, naked body, displayed against all that pink girly prettiness.

It was a complete turn on.

Not that Sam was saying about _that,_ of course.

But he got the impression Rhonda liked that sight too.  She _enjoyed_ seeing Dean (and Sam) naked in her bedroom.  No doubt about that.

But anyway.  Moving on.

Rhonda’s kitchen, with all those cupboards filled with things.  Plates and bowls of various sizes.  Glasses, cups.  Baking gadgets.  A blender, for those weird juices Rhonda liked to make out of fruits and raw vegetables.  A cutlery drawer containing a matched set of forks, spoons and knives and more gadgets (like a real cheese grater, which Sam would use, reducing a block of cheddar into a pile of shredded cheese which he’d then eat off a plate, in handfuls).  A pantry, with cans and jars and tins and boxes of food.  A whole cupboard devoted to cleaning items.  A dishwasher.  A fridge and freezer, filled with leftovers and Rhonda’s mom’s pre-prepared dishes (to Sam’s delight) like casseroles, macaroni salads, that kind of thing.  Containers of yogurt.  Cut up carrot and celery sticks.  _Ice cream._   Sam would make himself snacks in Rhonda’s kitchen after school and then bring them into her living room, sitting down contentedly in front of the TV and eating off a plate on his lap.  Like a _regular kid after school,_ okay?  Awesome.

At first Dean was uncomfortable about Sam eating at Rhonda’s house.   He didn’t want Sam (or himself, for that matter) freeloading off Rhonda and her mom for food.  But then Sam told Dean they’d just bring groceries over to Rhonda’s house too since Sam was hanging out there so much anyway (and so was Dean).  So Dean started doing that, and relaxed.  And now him and Sam had some of _their_ food at Rhonda’s house, like microwaveable corn dogs and pizza pockets and popsicles (and apparently Rhonda’s mom had noticed this and asked about it, and Rhonda had said it was her new boyfriend and his younger brother who’d brought the junkfood over).

And eventually Sam and Dean met Rhonda’s mom Jeannie, with Rhonda matter-of-factly introducing Dean as her new boyfriend (her mom’s eyes widening as she registered Dean’s spectacular looks) and Sam as Dean’s little brother and Jackson’s friend.  And when Rhonda asked her mom if Sam could hang out at their house occasionally when Dean had to work, her mom had said okay (Jeannie softening helplessly under the combined effect of Dean’s blonde beauty and Sam’s puppy eyes).  So _that_ was okay.

Rhonda’s mom was a surprisingly young looking slender blonde woman with tired blue eyes.  Rhonda told Sam that her mom had been your typical highschool cheerleader type growing up, and had dated the same guy (on the football team, go figure), all through highschool and college.  She’d planned to marry him and it had been a big deal when she’d left him for Rhonda’s dad.  The old boyfriend wasn’t in town any more but his family still was, and it hadn’t been so easy for Rhonda’s mom, when she’d returned to her home town after Rhonda’s dad’s death with a little black daughter.  She’d taken some shit about it.  Rhonda had told this to Sam in an even, matter of fact voice one evening when she and Sam were at her house (Dean was working, but Rhonda had the evening off).

“So did _you_ take any shit about it?” Sam asked her.  “When you were growin up?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “Some.” 

Sam waited.  Rhonda didn’t say anything else.

Sam stroked her hair (they were lying in Rhonda’s bed, both of them naked, tired after a marathon sex session that had included the sixty nine position and a couple of different fuck positions, including Rhonda straddling Sam’s hips and riding him, her breasts bouncing in front of him – Sam really liked _that_ position). 

Rhonda, silent.

“You’re like Dean,” Sam said after a moment.  “Gettin words out of him’s like digging them out of the ground.”

Rhonda laughed.  “Well, I got teased,” she said eventually.  “My mom’s old boyfriend’s sister has a girl my age and she _hated_ me, in grade school.”

“What’d she do?” Sam asked.

Rhonda was quiet.  Then said, “She called me…” Rhonda was silent again.  “Well you get the picture,” she said, eventually.   Another silence.  “And she got all her friends doing it,” Rhonda added.  “At school, you know?  On the playground.  And in class, too.  I couldn’t get away from it.  And that went on, for awhile.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  Then asked, “Did anyone do anything about it?”

“My mom,” Rhonda said.  “She went and spoke to the school, the other girl’s parents, that kind of thing.”

“Did it work?” Sam asked.

Rhonda was silent.  Then said, “Not really.  I guess a bit.  But I didn’t get invited to many birthday parties when I was a kid.  You know?  Just my family’s.  Cause I _had_ to be.” 

“Oh,” Sam said.  He stroked her hair.

“It got better though, when I got older,” Rhonda continued.  “Those kids – I ended up being friends with them, eventually.  In highschool.  Even with that girl who started it all.  More or less.  And I learned how to stand up for myself.”

“And got hot,” Sam said.  “And became a jock.”

Another brief laugh.  “Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “That didn’t hurt.”

“Did anyone _else_ stand up for you besides your mom?” Sam asked.  “When you were younger?”

Rhonda was silent.

“Rhonda?”

Rhonda was silent.  Sam glanced at her.  There were tears in her eyes.  She looked over at him then looked away.  “Once in awhile,” she said.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  She closed her eyes.

Now Sam was silent.  He and Rhonda lay on her bed, breathing quietly. 

“If Dean ‘n’ me were around then, _we’d’ve_ stood up for you,” Sam said eventually.  “Dean would’ve put a stop to it.”

“Oh yeah?” Rhonda said.  She smiled at him.  “Did he do that for you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I was never teased.  Or like, I’d be teased _once._   You know?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “I can see that.  Scary big brother Dean.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. 

“Must’ve been great,” Rhonda continued.  “Having someone like Dean there.  Backing you up.”

“It was,” Sam whispered.  He felt tears in his own eyes, suddenly. 

_(Dean.  You – you were great/always there)_

And the tears, pooling in his eyes. 

_(But you were always so hard on me)_

Sam turned, buried his face into Rhonda’s hair.  It covered his face, soft and warm like a blanket.  Sam nuzzled into this, aware suddenly of a reservoir of feeling, miles deep, suddenly welling up inside of him.

_(Dean, I wish, I wish-)_

And tears rising, helplessly.

_(I wish we’d had a different life/I wish-)_

But then another thought like sudden ice, stopping him cold.

_(I wish you’d see we could)_

Rhonda’s voice.  “So no one gave you a hard time about being…you know…”

Sam glanced at Rhonda, smiling.  His eyes were dry now.  “Me?”

Rhonda laughed.  “Yeah.  I guess.”

“Just my dad,” Sam said.  “He’d call me things like sissy or girly.  My hair’s too long, I’m poutin like a girl, that kind of thing.  I think he was pretty worried I’d turn out gay.”

“Well…” Rhonda said.  She put a hand on Sam’s cock.  “Guess you proved him wrong.”

Sam laughed.  He put his hand on top of Rhonda’s hand.  “Guess so.”

Rhonda patted him.  “What does your dad think about the shaved legs?”

“Oh he doesn’t know,” Sam said.  “He doesn’t know I ever dressed up as a girl.  Dean kept it from him.”

“Oh,” Rhonda said.  Then asked, “So…what does _Dean_ think?”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “I think he…I think he’s cool with it.  He just lets me be myself.  You know?”

“Uh huh,” Rhonda said.  Said, “You’re lucky.”

Sam didn’t reply.  Then said, “Yeah.”

They were quiet again.  Then Rhonda said, “You…ever thought about dressing like a girl again?”

Sam glanced at her.  He felt himself reddening.

Rhonda was staring at him, suspiciously now.  Then said, “Sam?”

“Um…” Sam said.

Rhonda rolled her eyes.  “So what did you try on?” she asked after a moment.  Her voice was resigned.

“The red skirt,” Sam said.  “And the black sweater.”

“The wraparound sweater?” Rhonda asked.

“Yeah,” Sam replied.

Rhonda, quiet.  Then she asked, “…So how’d it look?”

“Pretty good,” Sam said.  “I thought.”

“You look hot?” Rhonda asked him.

Sam laughed.  “Yeah.”

Rhonda looked at him consideringly.  Then said, “Can I see?”

Sam blinked.  “You serious?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  Her eyes on him.

Sam sat up.  Got to his feet.  Then went over to Rhonda’s closet and unclipped the red skirt from its hanger.

Rhonda, watching this.  “You knew right where it was, huh?”

Sam shrugged, somewhat embarrassed.  “Yeah, well…”  He was pulling the skirt on over his bare ass.

Rhonda, watching.  “It’s a lot shorter on you,” she said. 

Sam laughed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Nothin but a butt warmer.”

Rhonda was sitting up now.  Her eyes were sparkling.  “Put on the sweater,” she said.

Sam went over to Rhonda’s sweater drawer and pulled out the black wraparound sweater.  Rhonda was rolling her eyes again.   “Do you know where _everything_ is?” she asked.

“Yup,” Sam said.  Because, well…he did.

“Little snoop,” Rhonda said.  But she didn’t sound surprised.  Or particularly pissed off.  Sam smiled.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t go into your locked drawer, though.  Left that one alone.”

“Good of you,” Rhonda said.

Sam grinned.   _“I_ thought so,” he said.  He was putting on the sweater, tying it around his waist.

“Why’re you so fascinated with my room?” Rhonda asked.

“I dunno,” Sam said.  “It’s a window into a different life, I guess.”  Now looking at himself in the mirror on Rhonda’s closet door.  The sweater made him look slender, obscuring the muscles of his shoulders and arms, wrapping tight around his long, narrow ribcage and waist.

Rhonda was gazing at him, fascinated.  “A day in the life of a girl,” she said absently.

Sam laughed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “But also, like…a day in the life of a normal kid.  You know?  I mean, I grew up in motel rooms.   Slept in the same room with my brother _and_ my dad until I was thirteen years old.  Never had a place for my stuff, other than my duffel bag.  Never _had_ much stuff, other than what I could pack up in like, ten minutes.”  He was smoothing the skirt over his hips.  Turned to look at Rhonda, sitting on the bed.  “So what do you think?” he asked.

Rhonda was silent.  But then got up and went to stand behind him.  Put her arms around Sam’s waist.  They gazed silently together into the mirror.  “You look good,” Rhonda said eventually.  “Almost as cute in that outfit as me.”

Sam grinned at her.  “Thanks,” he said.  Rhonda grinned back.  Started rocking him gently, from behind.   “My cute little girl,” she murmured.

Sam felt his smile fading.  _Little girl._   Dean calling him that, so many times.  “I’m not little,” Sam said to Rhonda.  “I’m like, half a foot taller than you.”

“I know,” Rhonda said.  And rocking him.  “It’s just a phrase.  But you _are_ younger than me.  Just a kid.”

“I’ll be sixteen on Sunday,” Sam said.

Rhonda looked interested.  “Really?” she said. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “May 2nd.”

“Really,” Rhonda said.  “You ‘n’ Dean never said anything about it.”

Sam shrugged.  “We don’t make a big deal about birthdays,” he said. 

“We should do something,” Rhonda said.  “I’ll bake you a cake.”

Sam smiled, pleased.  “Okay,” he said. 

“What kind do you like?” Rhonda asked. 

“Chocolate,” Sam said. 

Rhonda smiled at him.  “Okay birthday boy,” she said.  “We c’n do that.   We can even have a party for you.  At the diner.  Invite Jackson and everybody else.  Chocolate cake ‘n’ ice cream.  Would you like that?”

Sam thought about this.  Celebrating his birthday.  With _other_ people, not just his dad and Dean (and occasionally Bobby), the bottle of Dewars going around the table.  A birthday party at the diner sounded wonderful.  “Sure,” Sam said softly.  “That’d be great.”  But he felt sad, suddenly.

Rhonda noticed.  “What is it?” she asked. 

“You’re not the only one who didn’t get invited to birthday parties,” Sam said.  “I never was.  Not like, _once.”_

Rhonda stared at him.  “Seriously?” she said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “We were never in one place long enough for things to work out that way.  Me getting invited to someone’s birthday, I mean.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rhonda said after a moment.  Her eyes on his in the mirror, soft now.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Looking at himself and Rhonda, staring out together from the mirror.  Their shared gaze was too much for him to sustain, suddenly.  He looked away, looked down.  And took in the sight of his long legs, gleaming smooth under the short red skirt.  “I’m surprised you’re not more freaked out by this,” he said.  Gesturing at his reflection.

“Me too,” Rhonda said.  “But somehow…on you…it’s not as freaky as you’d think.”

Sam grinned.  “Maybe that’s because _I’m_ a freak,” he said.  “In an overall sense.”

“Maybe,” Rhonda agreed.  Her hands were on the front of his thighs now, stroking them.  “You’re kind of a hot freak, though.”

Sam, watching this.  Those slender hands, dark against his smooth skin.  “This turnin you on?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “Kinda.”  And her hands, stroking.  “Your skin’s dry,” she said after a moment.  “You could use some moisturizer.” 

“Whyn’t you put it on me,” Sam said.  And the sound of his voice, murmuring now.  This stunning naked girl, pressed up against him, stroking his legs so casually, possessively.  The sight they made together in the mirror, with him in these skimpy girl clothes, standing there cooperatively under Rhonda’s hands.  Rhonda wasn’t the only one getting turned on.

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  “You go lie down.”  And she pushed Sam gently towards her bed.  Sam lay down obediently.  “I’ll be right back,” she said.  And left to get the moisturizer from the bathroom.

Returning, now kneeling beside Sam’s legs, slathering the moisturizer over them.  Working it in.

Sam watched this, Rhonda methodically rubbing the cool lotion into his skin.  “Havin fun?” he asked.  Hearing the pleasure in his voice.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “You're like a big, oversize Barbie doll.”  Sam laughed.  “Put some of that on my feet,” he said.  Rhonda complied.  Sam jumped.  “Don’t tickle me!” he said.  “Be careful.”

“Oh I’ll be careful,” Rhonda said.  She was massaging the lotion into his heels, a frown of concentration on her face.  “Don’t want you kicking me with those big hooves of yours.”  Sam laughed again.  This was great.

“Your cuticles could use some work,” Rhonda said.  “Say – would you like a pedicure?”

“A what?” Sam asked.

“A pedicure,” Rhonda said.  “You know, when like you groom your feet.  Make them all nice and pretty.”  She brought one of her own legs up, waved a foot under Sam’s nose, the toes gleaming like pink polished shells. 

Sam wasn’t saying no to that.  “Sure,” he said.  And his voice, sounding thrilled.

Rhonda grinned.  She got up, went over to her bureau and came back with a couple of mysterious metal implements.  Sam looked at these rather nervously.  “You gonna torture me?”

Rhonda, grinning.  “Not if you’re good,” she said.  She picked up one of his feet, nestled it into her lap.  Started smoothing lotion onto his toes.  “I’m gonna clean up your cuticles.  Stay still now.”  And she got started, pushing back the skin around Sam’s toenails with this tiny metal paddle then clipping it with an equally tiny pair of scissors.

Sam held himself rigidly still.  Watched this, fascinated.

Rhonda was done.  She smoothed her thumb over his toes.  “What colour of polish do you want?”

“Um…what colours you got?” Sam asked.

“Light pink,” Rhonda said.  “Like my nails.  Or hot pink.  Purple.  Or I have red.  To match your skirt.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Red sounds good.”

Rhonda was up and now back, holding a little pot of red polish.  She sat down cross legged on the bed, still naked (and giving Sam quite the show).  Sam put his foot into her lap again.  “This is cool,” he said.

Rhonda was smiling.  She looked very happy, Sam noticed.  “It is,” she agreed.  “I kinda feel like I’m doing one of the cooling things ever.  I don’t know why.”

Sam was smiling back.  “Because we’re just goin with it,” he said.  And Rhonda nodded absently.  She was bent over his foot, her brow furrowed with concentration again.

When Rhonda was halfway through polishing the toes on Sam’s other foot, they heard the front door open.  Dean’s voice from the front hall.  “Rhonda?”

“Yeah?” Rhonda called down.

“Sammy there with you?” Dean called back.

“Yeah,” Rhonda replied.

“I brought food back with me,” Dean called.  “Burgers and half a pie.  Tell Sam to come down.”

“He can’t right now,” Rhonda called back.

Silence.  Then Dean’s voice, from the foot of the stairs.  “Why not?”

Sam and Rhonda looked at each other.  And started to grin, helplessly.  “He can’t really move right now,” Rhonda called down.  And staring at Sam.  “Give him a minute.”

The sound of steps on the stairs.

“Oh shit,” Sam whispered.  He was breathless with silent laughter.  Stared at Rhonda staring back at him, her expression freaked out now.

Dean was standing in the doorway to Rhonda’s bedroom, his eyes on Sam and Rhonda on the bed. 

Sam stared back.  Grinning helplessly and a bit nervously, aware of the sight he made, dressed in Rhonda’s clothes, his gleaming bare legs extended across Rhonda’s lap, one of his feet now with polished red toenails and the other foot half done.

Dean’s eyes were wide.  “Fuck,” he said.

He turned and went back downstairs.

Sam and Rhonda were laughing.

“Dean!” Rhonda called.  “Come back!”

Dean’s voice.  “No.”

“C’mon Dean,” Sam called.  “You c’n wait up here till I’m done.”

“No,” Dean called back.  “Not a chance.”

Sam and Rhonda laughing.  Rhonda was bent over Sam’s foot again, carefully painting a toe nail.  “Dean’s gonna kill me,” she said.

“Nah,” Sam said.  “He’ll be cool.” (Not one hundred percent sure about this, though).

Rhonda was done.  She bent over Sam’s toes and blew on them.  “Just stay on the bed for a little longer,” she said.  “Until they dry.  You don’t want them to smudge.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

Rhonda was up, putting on her robe.  “I’m going downstairs to see Dean,” she said. 

Sam started to speak.  “Don’t you think we should-“ but Rhonda was out the door, running lightly down the stairs.

“- go down together,” Sam finished, speaking into the empty room. 

For like, mutual protection.

But then he shrugged.  Oh well.  It’s not like Dean hadn’t seen Sam dressed in girl’s clothes before.  But what _Rhonda_ didn’t know was that him and Dean reserved those moments for special occasions.  Intense ones.

A shriek, from downstairs.  And then a giggle.  And then-

“Dean, _no!”_

Dean’s voice.  “So you think you c’n play dress up with my little brother, huh?”

“Sorry.”  Rhonda’s voice, breathless with laughter.

“Yeah, right.”  Dean’s voice. 

A shuffling sound.  Sam sat on the bed, listening intently.  Then, “Don’t you think we should go upstairs?”  Rhonda’s voice.

“Nah.”  Dean’s voice.  “Table’ll do.”

More shuffling.  Creaks.  And then this soft, almost _cooing_ sound, like a bird.  Rhonda’s voice, Sam was familiar with that sound by now.

Sam, listening to this.  And waiting.  And waiting some more.  He ran a thumb lightly over one of his toenails.  It felt dry.  “I’m comin down!” he called.

“Not yet!” Dean called back.  Now _he_ sounded breathless.

“So _when,_ then?” Sam called.

“In a _minute,_ Sam, Jesus!” Dean called back.  And then the screech of table legs, across linoleum.  And now Rhonda’s voice, sounding sharp.  “Hey, careful!”

“Sorry.”  Dean’s voice.

“Don’t scratch the floor,” Rhonda said.

 _“Sorry,”_ Dean said.  And then, “That better?”

“…Yeah…” Rhonda’s voice, soft again.  Then, _“Oh!”_   And now moaning.  And now cooing, again.

Sam rolled his eyes.  They were taking forever.  He got up, looked critically at himself in Rhonda’s mirror.  Struck a supermodel pose.  Grinned.  He looked good.  But he didn’t think it was wise to go downstairs and put himself in front of Dean, dressed like this.  Get his brother all worked up again.  He took off the girl clothes and put them away, hanging the skirt and folding the sweater carefully (because Rhonda would notice).  Then retrieved a pair of pajamas (his own pajamas, the blue plaid flannel ones that Dean had bought him from Walmart), that he’d started keeping in Rhonda’s nightie drawer.  Walked naked to Rhonda’s bathroom, carrying the pajamas.  Showered, taking his time.  Pulled on the pajamas.  Stood undecided at the top of the stairs.  Dean and Rhonda _had_ to be done by now.  “I’m comin down!” he called.

“Okay,” Dean called back.

Sam entered the kitchen.  Rhonda and Dean were sitting at the table, both dressed, a bottle of Dewars between them (Dean had started keeping a bottle in the cupboard above Rhonda’s fridge).  Glasses of whiskey and plates of pie were in front of them.  They were eating.

“Leave any for me?” Sam asked.  Rhonda and Dean both looked up, taking in the sight of Sam in his pajamas.  They paused.

And now two sets of eyes on him, softening. 

And Sam seeing that, the faces of Rhonda and his brother, turned towards him.  Their eyes, gazing at him with that shared, tender look.  Sam’s chest felt tight, suddenly.

“…Yeah,” Dean said, after a moment.  “On the counter there.  And there’s burgers, you c’n warm them up in the microwave.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  And now the three of them sitting around the table, munching.  And later, curled up on the living room couch, Dean on one side of Rhonda with his arm around her and Sam with his head on Rhonda’s lap, his body wrapped up in the knitted afghan blanket that lived on the back of Rhonda’s couch, the three of them watching _The Terminator_ on video (one of _Dean’s_ picks, from the last time they’d all visited the video rental store), and Sam sleepy now, ready for bed, but waiting for the movie to be done so that him, Rhonda and Dean could go back up to Rhonda’s room together.  And in the meantime, snuggled warmly under the afghan, lazed out on Rhonda’s couch, in Rhonda’s tidy, cozy living room, his eyes sleepily on Dean’s sock feet propped up on Rhonda’s coffee table, Dean kicked back, lazy now too. 

Dean so relaxed, and not upset anymore at Sam dressing up in Rhonda’s clothes (fucking Rhonda on her kitchen table had helped him get over that).  And Rhonda, stroking Sam’s hair absently.  Making the occasional comment (because unlike Sam and Dean, she _didn’t_ think that Arnold was the most awesome thing ever).  But watching the movie with the brothers, patiently. 

Because she got a kick out of how much Sam (and Dean) enjoyed hanging out at her house.  Making themselves comfortable.  At home. 

She liked that, Sam could tell.

So yeah.  Rhonda’s house.  It was great.

And seeing Rhonda and Dean together…that was kind of great too.   Surprisingly cute.  Not that Sam would ever say that to _Dean._ He told Rhonda, though.

“You make a cute couple,” he said.  (Him and Rhonda were in her room, alone again, with Dean at work.  Sam was sitting in Rhonda’s desk chair wearing nothing but a pair of her panties, a lacy white pair this time.  Rhonda was sitting on the bed, in front of him.  She was leaning forward, putting mascara on Sam's eyelashes, carefully).

“Yeah?” Rhonda said.  Her intent, absorbed expression, as she made Sam pretty.  Sam grinned.

“Don’t do that!”  Rhonda said.  “Keep your face still.”

“Sorry,” Sam said.  “So yeah,” he said after a moment, speaking carefully.  “You’re like…two alley cats, circling each other.  Yowlin and spittin and then fucking.”

Rhonda rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, that sounds _real_ cute,” she said.

Sam laughed, trying not to move his face.  “No, really,” he said.  “It’s like you always hate each other a little bit, but that’s okay, because you actually _like_ what you hate about each other.”

“Uh huh,” Rhonda said.  She was working on Sam’s other eye now.  “So what do we hate/like about each other so much?”

“Well, you’re both kind of jerks.  Assholes, you know?” Sam said.  “But not because you want to be.  You _don’t_ want to be, actually, it’s just that you both have to _think_ about it, _not_ to be.”

“Gee,” Rhonda said.  “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sam said.  “And you both recognize that about each other.  _That’s_ what’s cute.  That you’re both like, _reluctant_ assholes.  Must be like meetin your own twin.  A reunion.”

“Wow,” Rhonda said (sarcastically).  “So me ‘n’ Dean are assholes and _that’s_ why we like each other.  You’re deep, Sam.”  She sat back.  “We’re done.  God, you’ve got the most awesome eyelashes.  They’re like a foot long.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.  He was blinking, carefully.  “They feel stiff though,” he said.  “I dunno whether I like it.”

Rhonda grinned.  “The price of beauty,” she said.  “You wanted to try out girlstuff, right?  Well mascara is part of that.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  He was looking at himself in the mirror.  His eyelashes _did_ look about a foot long.  “Thanks,” he said.  “You did a good job.”

“For an _asshole,”_ Rhonda said.

Sam looked at her.  Had he hurt Rhonda’s feelings?  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “That sounded harsher than I meant.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “Well, I sort of get it.  I _did_ think Dean was an asshole for the longest time, even though I _also_ thought he was wicked hot.  And I know he didn’t like _me_ much.  But I think we’re both over that, now.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “Now you like, respect each other.  Cause you’ve figured out how to share the territory.”

Rhonda was staring at him, smiling slightly.  “Oh really?  So what territory is that, Sam?”

Sam smiled back at her.  Like she really didn’t know.  “Me,” he said.  “Duh.”

But Rhonda, staring at him now.  “Well…I’m, um, _fucking_ you,” she said.  “How’s Dean sharing that, exactly?”

Oops.  Sam needed to reposition this, fast.  “I mean…it’s like you’re both sharing being older than me,” he said.  “I mean…the way the two of you order me around I feel like I’ve ended up with a big brother _and_ a big sister all of a sudden,” he added.

Rhonda was grinning now.  “Poor Sammy,” she said.  “Getting bossed around by the big people.”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And he felt himself pouting, slightly.  Because it often _was_ like that, Jesus, with both Rhonda and Dean casually ganging up on him.  Telling Sam to do things like it was their right.  Sammy, still the family baby.  He couldn’t get away from that, it seemed.

“Bet you didn’t think about _that,”_ Rhonda said.  Her voice was amused.  “When you set this whole thing up.”

“No,” Sam said.  But then he stood up, looming over her suddenly.  He was hard, his cock straining against the tight containment of the panties.  “I didn’t,” he said in a different voice.

Rhonda was staring at him.  “What’re you doing?” she asked.  Sam saw her swallow as she took in the bulge at his groin. 

“I’m done with being a girl, for now,” Sam said.  And he picked up one of Rhonda’s hands, placed it on his cock.  “Hold it,” he said.

Rhonda curled her fingers around the bulge.  She stared up at him, silently.  “So what does it feel like?” Sam asked her.

“Heavy,” Rhonda replied.  And her hand, holding his cock, testing its weight.

Sam smiled at her.  “I’m puttin that in you, now,” he said.  “Lie back.”

Rhonda hesitated.  But then she lay back on the bed, still staring at him.

Sam gestured at her.  "'N' get rid of those," he said.

Rhonda stripped her track pants and tshirt off then lay back down, naked now.

Sam had peeled off the panties.  He took a condom out of the box that Rhonda had started keeping handy in her little night table drawer and quickly rolled it over his cock.  Then joined Rhonda on the bed.  Entered her, a sharp, deep stab.

Rhonda gasped.  “Sam!”  But her eyes had closed slightly.  She was wet, Sam noticed, taking him easily.

Sam thrust into her again.  And again, grinding into her, the way he knew she liked.  Rhonda gasped.  Bit her lip.

“You c’n dress me up as a girl,” Sam murmured to her, “but don’t forget about _this.”_   And he thrust into her again.  Rhonda moaned.

“And you c’n order me around…just like Dean does…just like I’m _your_ little brother too…” Sam said.  “But don’t you _ever_ forget about _this.”_   And he thrust into her again.  Hard.

 _“Oh!”_   Rhonda gasped.

Sam was smiling down at her.  “Put your legs around me,” he murmured.  Rhonda wrapped her legs around his waist.  “So am I wicked hot like my brother?” Sam whispered to her.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered back.  “You sure are.”  And straining up against Sam now, pressing her breasts against his chest.  “And you’re just as much of an asshole,” she whispered.  But her arms were around Sam's back, holding him tight.

Sam laughed.  And then he was fucking her _,_  still laughing, and Rhonda was laughing, and then they were rolling all over each other, with Rhonda on top for awhile, and then Sam grabbing her by the hips, putting her on her hands and knees and fucking her from behind with Rhonda wriggling her ass, deliberately making it difficult for him and Sam grabbing that ass to hold her still, Rhonda shrieking softly.  And then Rhonda wrestling herself free, turning around and grabbing _him,_ clambering on top of him, pushing Sam down on the bed and pinning him by his wrists, his arms over his head.  “You’re _my_ girl now Sammy,” she said.  And then putting her mouth on Sam’s bare underarm, sucking at the sensitive skin, Sam yelping, and then her mouth on his nipples, sucking on them, gnawing on them rather viciously, with Sam yelping again, and now Rhonda straddling him, putting Sam into her and riding him again, the two of them bucking hard against each other and coming, eventually, both of them slippery with sweat now and then collapsing bonelessly onto each other in a damp tangle of arms, legs and hair.

And lying there, too spent and lazy to get up and turn off the light.

Which is how Dean found them when he came into the room, Sam waking from a light doze and looking over at him.  “Hey Dean,” he said sleepily.

Dean was shaking his head.  “Makeup _again?”_ he said.  He was unbuttoning his flannel shirt, unbuckling his belt.

“Rhonda was makin me pretty,” Sam mumbled.  “’N’ then she got so turned on she couldn’t restrain herself.”

Rhonda snorted.  “Yeah right,” she said, without opening her eyes. 

Dean was down to his undershorts and a tshirt.  He'd turned off the light and was climbing into the bed.  “Move over,” he said.  “God, the two of you _stink.”_

“Well at least we don’t smell like a deep fryer,” Sam said. 

Rhonda laughed.

“No,” Dean said.  “You smell stronger ‘n’ that, trust me.  Sammy, go put on your jammies.”

Sam grumbled.

“Sam,” Dean said, “you’re not sleepin naked.  Go do it, _now.”_

 _“Rhonda’s_ naked,” Sam grumbled.

“Rhonda c’n be naked,” Dean said.  “Not you.  Okay?  We already talked about this.  Now _do it.”_

Sam untangled himself from Rhonda and stumbled over to her bureau.  Pulled out his pajamas and put them on.  Turned back to the bed.  Saw that Rhonda and Dean had arranged themselves in their usual spots.  Saw Rhonda looking at him.  “Sam,” she said.  “You should wash your face.  It’s not good to sleep with makeup on.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Sam said.

Rhonda looked at him.  “Sam,” she said.  “Go wash your face.  Sleeping with makeup on is gross.”

“But I’m tired,” Sam said.

“Sam, just do it.”  This was Dean.  “Stop arguin.”

Sam was on his way to the bathroom.  “God,” he said over his shoulder.  “The two of you are _so bossy.”_

He heard Dean and Rhonda laugh.  Uh huh.  Jerks.  “And brush your teeth!” Rhonda called after him.

 _“Yes_ Rhonda!” Sam called back, sarcastically.  And heard her saying to Dean, “Sam's so cute, when he says that.”  Sam snorted.

But then Dean’s voice.  “Yeah.  I know.”

Sam was scrubbing his face with a washcloth.  He paused, looking up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The sound of Dean’s relaxed voice.  Fond.  Slightly rueful.

But accepting, of the situation.

_(Yeah)_

Sam, hearing this.  And he saw himself smiling at his reflection, helplessly.


	45. Chapter 45

Dean had a memory of Sam that he wasn’t sure his brother remembered.  He wasn’t sure because because he and Sam had never talked about it.

The first time their dad had whipped Sam with the belt.

Dean had hoped actually (until recently), that Sam _didn’t_ remember that.  He’d thought that, hopefully. 

But now he wasn’t so sure.

Sam would have been about five, Dean nine.

Their dad had left them alone at the motel room with an extra large pepperoni pizza in a cardboard box and a family size bag of cheddar cheese popcorn, the food sitting on the coffee table (no kitchen table in _that_ particular motel room, it wasn’t a housekeeping room).  Pizza and popcorn was what Dean and Sammy would have to eat for the day and they weren’t supposed to go outside, not even to the vending machine near the motel office (it was a school day and their dad didn’t want anyone seeing two little kids running around a motel parking lot with no adult in sight).

Dean never knew exactly why their dad had kept them home from school, other than it was connected with the current hunt, things probably too dicey that day for John to leave his kids just anywhere (before their dad had left, he’d warded the room with chalk symbols on the walks and ceiling, and laid warding signs in front of the door and the one grimy motel window with masking tape.  And he’d moved Sammy and Dean’s bed and put a sign in masking tape on the floor under their bed too and then moved their bed back in place (“You know what to do, Dean, if you need to.” / “Yes sir.”).  And he’d spread salt on the window sill and around the complete perimeter of the room in a thick white line (a surprising amount of their family’s cash went towards keeping them in salt and it was _Dean’s_ job to clean this up as best he could before their family moved on – Dean _loved_ that job, of course).  And their dad had warded the bathroom with more chalk signs and put this weird statuette on the back of the toilet seat (“ _Don’t_ touch her Dean, ‘n’ don’t let Sammy touch her – got it?” / “Yes sir.”).  But then of course Dean and Sammy had to _use_ the toilet, up close and personal to this strangely twisted figure, carved out of some exotic looking dark red wood, and just looking at it _(her)_ made Dean feel all light and queasy.  And _Sammy_ couldn’t even stand it, he wouldn’t go in the bathroom by himself with that statue there, so Dean had to go in with him and stand by the toilet and keep his hand on Sammy’s shoulder while Sammy did his business, Sammy whimpering (and Dean saying, “Just keep your eyes closed Sammy, don’t look.”)

So yeah.  Not a great day.  And their dad expected to be gone for hours (and possibly the whole _night_ even, and Dean with strict instructions to wait until 8 a.m. the next morning before calling Bobby if their dad didn’t come back).

Hours of this – gnawing boredom underlaid with fear (for their dad, because clearly things were wicked dangerous today, things could go sideways in the blink of an eye).

And increasing irritation.  With Sammy.

Because Sammy was bored too.

And when Sammy was bored, he got into things.

“Sammy, leave those alone!”  (Sammy was messing around with the papers on their dad’s desk.  After Dean had already told him not to.  For like, the tenth time).

“But I wanna look at the pictures.”

“No!   You know Dad _hates_ it when you get into his stuff!”

“How’s he gonna know?”

“He just will, that’s all.  Remember the last time you fooled around with his book?”  ( _Dean_ did, he still remembered their dad’s furious voice, and then their dad’s large hand, spanking both him and then Sammy mercilessly on their bare butts, Sammy howling).

“…Uh huh.”   But Sammy didn’t stop, still seated at their dad’s desk and now holding up a pencil sketch of a long thin stretched out figure with claws for hands (eerily expressive -their dad was surprisingly good at drawing -he could draw pictures just as good as the ones in the comic books he’d pick up for Dean and Sammy to read in the car).  Sammy looking at this, contemplatively.

Dean stalking over and grabbing it out of Sammy’s hands.  “I said _stop it!”_   He laid the sketch down carefully, trying to remember just how it had been placed on the desk’s surface (because their _dad_ would remember).  Then he pointed towards the couch.  “Go sit there!”

“But Dean –“

“Go _sit there_ Sammy, I mean it!”

“But-“

“Jesus!”  Dean grabbed Sammy under the arms and lifted him bodily out of the chair.  Marched him over to the couch.  Not gently.

“Dean!”

Dean pushed Sammy down on the couch.  Stood over him.  “I said, _siddown!_   And _stay there!”_

Sammy sitting on the couch.  Staring up at Dean silently, tears welling in his eyes.

Dean seeing this and now feeling terrible.  He leaned over and patted Sammy’s knee.  “I’m sorry SamSam.  I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Sammy staring at him, big eyes glimmering.  “Why’re you so mad at me Dean?  What’d I do?”

Dean took a breath.  Then spoke patiently.  Reasonably.  “You _know_ you’re not supposed to touch Dad’s things, Sammy.  You _know_ he hates that.”

Sammy looking sulky now.  “But there’s nothin _else_ to do.”

“You c’n play with your toys.  You c’n play with Munch.  Or the GI Joes.”

“I’ve already played with them.  Like a zillion times.  I’m _sick_ of them.”

“You c’n colour.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You c’n watch TV.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.  “There’s nothin on right now.  Just people talkin.”

Dean was silent.  At a loss.  Because Sammy was right, actually.  Daytime TV sucked.

“Well…you wanna do models?  We got that new helicopter.”  (Their dad would occasionally bring back a model set for Dean and Sam to put together, setting it the box down carefully with this big grin on his face.  And Dean would make a point of acting _thrilled – “Wow_ Dad, thanks a _million!”)_  But Sammy was never all that enthused, and to be fair, the model sets _were_ kind of too old for him -and written clearly on the boxes - Caution - Small Parts, for Ages 8+ Only.  So playing with them was always a little dissatisfying, with Sammy losing interest fairly early on and Dean then having to keep an eye on him, never able to just relax and figure out how things fit together without his brother in the background saying “I’m _bored,_ Dean, can’t we do somethin else?”  And then their dad, if he was still in the room, saying, “Always _whinin,_ aren’t you Sammy?”  And Dean cringing at their dad’s cold voice, that cold, bitter _frustrated_ voice which was the only way their dad ever spoke to Sammy practically).

“Nah,” Sammy said.  “I don’t feel like it.”

Dean, standing there.  “Well…maybe we c’n-”

“-I wanna go out,” Sammy said.  “I wanna go to the park.”

“We can’t,” Dean said.  “We have to stay inside, remember?  Dad said.”

“Why?”  Sammy asked.

“Because it’s too dangerous to go out today,” Dean said.  “You know that _already_ Sammy, Dad said, before he left.”

“I hate him,” Sammy muttered.

Dean felt his insides twisting.  “No you don’t,” he said.  “Sammy, c’mon.”

“I do,” Sammy muttered.  But then he looked up at Dean’s face.  And his own expression changed.  “I was just kiddin Dean,” he said, gently now.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  And swallowed the tears he’d felt rising.  “Okay.  So what do _you_ want to do then?  _You_ tell _me.”_

Sammy, looking at him.  Then saying, “I wanna snuggle.”

Dean hesitated.  But then said, “Okay,” and went and sat down beside Sammy on the couch.  Put his arms around his brother.  Sammy immediately curled into him, a small warm shape.  Put his head against Dean’s stomach.  “Rub my head,” he said.

Dean dug his fingers into Sammy’s silky hair.  “Like that?”

“Yeah…”  and now Sammy’s voice, a soft mumble.  His small, thin arms, wrapped around Dean’s waist.

Dean rubbed his brother’s head.  For a long time.  Eventually he stopped.

Sammy’s voice.  “Now my back.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Jeez, Sammy.”  But his hand moved to Sammy’s back, stroking.

“Under my shirt,” Sammy said.

Dean sighed.  But he slipped his hand under Sammy’s shirt and rubbed Sammy’s back, the soft warm skin. 

“Mmmm,” Sammy murmured.  He’d burrowed his head into Dean’s side.

“…Had enough now, SammySam?” Dean asked him.  He was bored.  And his hand was getting tired.

“No,” Sammy said.

Dean sighed.  But kept rubbing.  Sammy turned his head, looked up into Dean’s face.  Dean saw the flash of Sammy’s eyes under long lashes, a peculiar yellowy colour right now.  “You keep on rubbin me Dean and I’ll fall asleep,” Sammy said.  Temptingly.

Dean nodded.  Sammy falling asleep, leaving Dean in peace finally…that _was_ a tempting thought.  And rubbing  Sammy, settling him down…that’s how Dean had been getting his brother to fall asleep for as long has he could remember, since before Sammy had started _talking,_ even.

_(And it was very important that he be able to do this, to get Sammy settled down, to stop crying, to fall asleep…because of their dad, who could get so angry)_

Two year old Sammy, wailing.  Bawling, at the top of his lungs.

Their dad.

 _“DEAN!_   I told you!  _Shut_ that kid _up_ Christ Jesus!”  And _Dean_ crying now, but trying not to, with Sammy crying louder than ever, shrieking now, and Dean clutching his brother, watching their dad fearfully (and remembering that time their dad had stomped over, grabbed Sammy out of Dean’s arms and _shaken_ him, Dean screaming as he watched this, helplessly, and then their dad handing Sammy roughly back to him and slamming out of the room).

So.  Avoiding moments like that.  Or

Sammy, wailing.  Dean trying to shush him, glancing nervously over at their dad, who was sitting stonefaced at his desk.

Their dad, breathing hard.  Then standing up.  “Dean I’m goin out.  Stay put ‘n’ don’t answer the door or phone.  I’ll be back later.  Okay?”  And Dean, not looking at him now.  “Yes sir.”  And now left alone in their shabby room with his fretful brother.  Waiting the long hours for their dad to come back, torn between relief (their dad, his temper rising but thankfully leaving before he lost it) and a gnawing, sad kind of worry (their dad, out there somewhere, probably drinking, Dean’s memory of their dad’s bleak expression as he put on his coat, his raw eyes on Dean and Sammy just before he left).

So Dean, accustomed to anxiously stroking his little brother, rubbing Sammy’s back, his head, crooning to Sammy in a low, urgent voice.

_(“Shhsh Sammy shhsh Sammy shhhhsh shhhhsh Sammy”)_

Encouraging Sammy to settle down, to quiet down, to fall asleep.  Before their dad lost it.

Because Sammy _would_ be calm eventually, if you gave him enough time, snoozing softly under Dean’s hands.   

And Sammy had come to expect it of him.  When he got tired (or bored) he’d turn to Dean expectantly and hold out his arms for snuggles.  Or butt his head against Dean’s side.  Or blackmail him.

“Dean, c’n you rub my head?”

Dean sighing.  “Later, I’m watchin TV.”  And his eyes, fixed deliberately on the grainy screen.

But Sammy staring at him, his lower lip starting to tremble.  “But I’m _tired.”_    His voice rising.  And Dean glancing at his brother exasperated (because Sammy might be a little tired sure, but what he _really_ wanted was more attention – Dean could see that, he wasn’t an idiot.  And he’d been _colouring_ with Sammy, ever since dinner.  He wanted to watch TV now).  But then their dad’s deep voice, from the other end of the room.

“Put Sammy to bed, Dean, it’s time for some peace ‘n’ quiet around here.”  Their dad, crouched over the papers on the desk, glass of Dewars in front of him.  Concentrating on his work, not looking up.  Yet.

Dean groaning, but turning off the TV.  Getting Sammy into his jammies (and putting on his too because Sammy liked it when Dean did the same things as him).  Both of them brushing their teeth.  Then guiding Sammy over to their bed, helping his little brother get under the covers.  Sitting there stroking Sammy’s head, Sammy blinking up at him.  “Dumbass,” Dean muttered to him.  And Sammy blinking, looking hurt.  Then Dean feeling bad, giving Sammy’s head an extra good rub.  “I was kiddin SammySam, I didn’t mean it.”  And Sammy’s face peaceful again, his eyelids starting to droop.  And eventually snoozing.  And by then Dean was snoozing too, collapsed beside Sammy on the bed, their dad coming over to pull the covers over him eventually.  That deep voice murmuring, “’Night, son.”  And Dean murmuring back sleepily, snuggling himself into the covers (his dad tucking him into bed, Dean loved that).  And putting his arms around his little brother, Sammy turning in his sleep to burrow against Dean’s side, a comforting warm weight.

And now sitting with Sammy on the couch, Sammy sprawled across Dean’s lap, Dean stroking his back, Sammy quiet, finally.  The sound of Sammy’s breathing.  And Dean, his own eyes starting to get heavy.  Letting himself fall sideways onto the couch, his arms around Sammy, Sammy grumbling but then shifting his little body around to accommodate Dean’s larger one, the two of them lying together on the couch, their arms and legs all tangled up.  Breathing against each other, quietly.

Sleeping through the rest of the afternoon. 

Well at least it was something to do.

A sharp rap on the door.  Their dad’s voice.  “Dean, I’m back.  Open the door.“  Dean opened his eyes.  He was lying on his back on the couch.  Sammy wasn’t beside him.  Dean raised his head, looked up.

And saw Sammy sitting on the floor beside the couch, sitting _inside_ the big canvas duffle bag that their dad stored his rifles and machetes and the long Japanese sword in, the big bag usually in the Impala’s trunk but today their dad had left the bag in their room for some reason, just taking out one of the machetes and leaving the bag on the floor beside the coffee table without comment.  And now Sammy, sitting _inside_ of it.  With all the other weapons scattered over the carpet, surrounding the duffel bag in a lethal circle of guns and blades.  Sammy, sitting in the middle of this with a GI Joe in one hand and Munch in the other.

Dean was on his feet.  “Sammy!”  An agonized whisper.  “What-“  And glancing panicked at their motel room door.  Another sharp rap.  And their dad’s voice, sharp now.  “Dean!  You hear me?  Open up, I need a hand with the door.”

Sammy looking at him, wide eyed.  Dean stared back helplessly.  He opened his mouth.  Closed it without answering their dad.  Maybe if Sammy just got out of the bag, got himself out of sight, Dean could pretend he’d been organizing the weapons or something-

-But now the sound of something heavy, thumping onto the floor outside their room.  The rattle of the key in the lock.  And their dad’s voice, urgent now.  “Dean?  Dean!  Answer me, son.”

“Sammy!”  Dean whispered.  “Get outa-“ But it was too late.  The motel room door was open, abruptly kicked in, the safety lock that Dean had fastened after their dad had left that morning now dangling uselessly off the wall.  Their dad looming in the doorway, gun in hand.  A large wooden box at his feet.  He peered sharply into the room, eyes fixing on Dean immediately.  Dean stood frozen, facing him.  “Dean,” their dad said.  “What the -why didn’t you-“ and then his eyes went to Sammy and the spread of weapons on the floor.  They widened.

“What the _hell-!”_

Sammy was crying.  He sat, his small body practically engulfed by the large canvas bag, just his head and shoulders sticking out, staring up at their dad, crying.

“Dad,” Dean said.  “It’s my fault.  I wasn’t watchin him.”

Their dad glanced back at him.  His eyes were ice cold.  Then, moving deliberately, he re-engaged the safety on his gun and tucked it into the back of his pants.  Turned and bent over the box, lifting it carefully.  It was clearly very heavy.  He brought the box into the room, placing it against one wall.  Straightened up and looked at Dean.  Dean had gone over while their dad was doing this and closed the door, staring sadly at the broken lock.  Another thing for their dad to be pissed with him about.  Dean turned.  He stood facing their dad silently.

Their dad gestured to the weapons on the floor.  “Put those back,” he said briefly.  He was taking off his jacket, hanging it up.  Picking up the bottle of Dewars on the desk, pouring himself a drink.

Dean walked over to where Sammy was sitting.  Sammy stared up at him, crying silently.  “Get outa there Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “Go sit on the couch.”

“Dean,” Sammy whispered back.  “C’n I-“

“Just go, Sammy!” Dean hissed at him.  “Go sit over there.  ‘N’ be quiet!”

Sammy got himself out of the duffel bag and went and climbed onto the couch.  He wrapped his hands around his knees, tucking his legs up under his chin.  Stared at Dean.

Dean was carefully re-packing the weapons bag.  He checked each gun as he put it back.  Thank god the safetys were still all on.  And the sharp blades, still sheathed.  Their dad was precise about his weaponry and he’d taught Dean how to handle and store everything properly.  And Sammy had been taught too.  He hadn’t done any harm other than making a mess.  I mean, it wasn’t like they’d been in any real _danger_ here.  And their dad had clearly had a successful day, the hunt ending early, him coming home and immediately pouring himself a drink (the sign that he was off duty, any pressing risks dealt with).  So maybe things would be okay.

The bag was packed and zipped.  Dean straightened up.  “All done sir.”

Their dad was sitting at his desk, writing something.  The glass of Dewars in one hand.  He looked up, glancing quickly between Dean and the bag on the floor.  Drained the glass of Dewars and stood up.  “Good,” he said.  “Now over the bed.  And pants down.”

Dean felt his lips trembling.  “But Dad.  Nothin-“

Their dad’s cold voice.  “You arguin with me son?  You askin for extra?”

“No,” Dean whispered.  He turned towards his and Sammy’s bed.  Caught Sammy’s eye.  Sammy staring at him, looking devastated.  “Dean?” he whispered.  His eyes, glimmering with new tears.

Dean smiled at him reassuringly.  “It’s okay, Sammy,” he said.  “Just don’t look okay?  It’ll be over soon.”

“Okay,” Sammy whispered. 

“No.”  Their dad’s voice.  Dean looked up.  Their dad was standing over them, staring down at Sammy.  “Sammy’s gonna watch.”  He pointed to a spot beside the bed.  “Get over there Sammy.  You’re waitin in line.”

Dean felt panic rising in his belly.  “Dad,” he said.  “What-“ 

“He’s watchin you,” their dad said.  “’N’ then he’s gettin it next.”

Sammy huddled on the couch, crying.  “Dean?” he said.

“Dad,” Dean said again.  “No.   Please.  It was my fault-“

“Yes it was,” their dad said.  “Your job today was to watch Sammy ‘n’ keep him out of trouble.  And to open the goddamn _door_ when I asked instead of delayin and tryin to cover up for your brother.  And nearly givin me a goddamn heart attack.  You failed me, Dean.”

Dean was crying now, too.  “I’m real sorry, Dad!  But please, c’mon-“

His dad interrupted him.  “-But Sammy’s old enough to know better too.  And it’s time he understands the _real_ consequences, Dean.  Of behavin like that.”

“Dad,” Dean was shaking.  “He’s too little-“

“He’s just as big as you were, the first time you got the belt,” his dad said.  “’N’ a heck of a lot more spoiled.  It’s time he learned.”

Dean was crying, helplessly.  “Dad,” he whispered.  “Please-“

Their dad had lost his patience.  “Sammy, go stand there _now!”_ he snapped.  Pointed to a spot beside the bed.  “You’re gonna learn the _real_ consquences of disobedience today.”

Sammy sitting on the couch frozen.  Crying.  Staring at Dean.

 _“Sammy!”_   their dad’s voice, like a lash.  And his face, going pale with anger.

“Go,” Dean said to his brother.  “Go on.  Sammy _now.”_  

Sammy got himself up off the couch and stumbled over to the spot beside the bed.  Stood there, crying.

“’N’ you too,” their dad said.  Looking at Dean.  “Don’t keep me waitin.”

Dean walked woodenly over to the bed.  He undid his pants and pulled them down.  Pulled his underwear down.  Bent over the bed, the air cold on his bare butt.  Heard the clink of his dad’s belt.

“You ready son?”

“Yes sir.”  And Dean, closing his eyes.  Trying not to cry out, not to flinch under the sharp crack of the belt, descending on him.  Again and again and again.  Conscious of Sammy, watching this.

It was over.  Dean was crying in spite of himself, heaving, gulping sobs.  His butt welted, burning.  His dad had gone really hard on him this time.  It would be at least a day, Dean knew, before he could sit normally again and several days before the pain was completely gone.

“You c’n get up now son.”

Dean straightened up, wiping his eyes.  Pulled up his pants.  Looked over at Sammy.

Sammy was standing like a statue, mouth open in a silent shriek.  Tears were running down his face.  Dean felt his own tears rise again, seeing this.  He turned to look up at their dad.  Their dad was staring at him grimly.  His belt was still in his hand.

Dean tried again.  “Dad,” he said.  “C’n we-“

“Sammy,” their dad said.  Still staring at Dean.  “Get over there.  Your turn.”

Sammy didn’t move.  He was staring at Dean too.  Tears, slipping silently down his face.

 _“Sammy!”_ their dad’s harsh voice.  _“Over there!_   _Now!”_

“No,” Sammy whispered.  “Dean- “

Their dad’s hand suddenly on Dean’s shoulder.  “Tell your brother to _get over there,”_ he said.  “Or he’s gettin it as hard as you got.”

Dean was crying.  He swallowed his tears with an effort.  “Sammy,” he said.  “Go and bend over the bed.  Just like I did.  Okay?”

Sammy was shaking his head.  “No,” he said.  “No, Dean, don’t make me-“

Their dad’s hand, tightening on Dean’s shoulder.  “Just do it, Sammy okay?” Dean said.  “It’s not so bad, it’s just sort of like a spanking.  And you’ve had those before, right?”  And he tried to smile at his brother again.

Sammy wasn’t buying it.  “No,” he said. 

“Sammy,” their dad said.  “Dean just got punished because of _you._   Because of what _you did._  And now you’re too much of a sissy to take your _own_ punishment?  Dean’s not gonna think much of you if _that’s_ the way you act.  No one wants a sissy for a brother.”

Sammy’s eyes on Dean.  Pleadingly.  _(He’s wrong, Dean.  Isn’t he?)_   But Dean didn’t say anything.  He stood under their dad’s hand silently.

Sammy, looking at this.  Then he walked over to the bed and bent himself over it.

Their dad followed.  “Take your pants down,” he said.  “And your underwear.”

Sammy pulled his pants and underwear down. 

“Dad,” Dean began, “don’t be too hard on him-“

“Quiet,” their dad said briefly.  “Your punishment’s not over.  After I’m finished with Sammy here, you’re both standin in the corner for an hour.  You don’t speak without permission until then.  Understand me, Dean?”

“Yes sir,” Dean whispered.  His eyes fixed helplessly on Sammy’s small body, bent over the bed.

Their dad positioned himself.  Raised his arm.  And then the lash of the belt, across Sammy’s butt.  Dean flinched.

But Sammy _shrieked._   Then began to cry loudly.

Dean was crying too.

Their dad lashed Sammy’s butt again.  And again.  And again.  Sammy shrieking.  Flinching.

Their dad, lashing again.  Sammy shrieking.  He started to get up.

“Stay down!” their dad snapped.  “Dean took his punishment like a man ‘n’ that’s how you’re takin _yours,_ Sammy!”

Sammy subsided onto the bed, sobbing.  His hands, clutching the blankets.  Red welts were rising on his butt.  Dean knew how he’d be feeling right now, the shocking, throbbing pain.

Their dad lashed him again.  And again. 

Sammy was shrieking.  Howling, into the blankets.  But he stayed in place.

Dean standing there helplessly.  Crying. 

And then their dad’s voice.  “You watchin, Dean?”

Dean crying.

Their dad’s voice.  Cold.  Deliberate.  And speaking loudly, not just for Dean’s ears.  “Dean.  I’m askin you a question.  _You watchin?”_

“Yes sir,” Dean whispered.  His eyes on Sammy’s little body, trembling in front of him.

“What was that?”

“Yes sir,” Dean said, louder.

“’N’ what do you see?”

“Sammy gettin punished,” Dean said.

“And does he deserve it?” their dad asked.

“Yes sir,” Dean whispered.

“What was that?” their dad said.  “Speak so I c’n hear you.  And Sammy too.”

“Yes sir,” Dean said, louder.

“So you just remember,” their dad said.  “If you not watchin him when I’m countin on it, like you’re _supposed to_ …you’re gonna be watchin _this._   From now on.  Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Dean said.  He was crying again.

“Good,” their dad said.  “You keep watchin.”  And then, “Sammy.”  Now speaking towards Sammy’s heaving back.  “You’re gettin one more.  ‘N’ it’s gonna be a hard one.  But it’s the _last_ one, because you’re bein obedient now.  Takin your punishment properly.  Like _Dean_ does, when he earns it.  So what do you say to me?”

Sammy, silent.

“Sammy.”  Suddenly their dad snapped his belt between his hands.  A sharp, popping sound.  Dean cringed.  “What do you say to me?”  And his voice was cold again.  Like ice.

“Yes sir.”  Sam’s voice was muffled.

“Pardon?”

“Yes _sir!”_   Sammy shouted.  And his voice, thick with tears.  But also…furious.

Dean stared up at their dad fearfully.  Their dad’s grim expression, that set mouth, tightening as their dad registered the tone in Sammy’s voice.  And then their dad raising his arm.  Bringing his belt down _heavily_ over Sammy’s butt.  The sharp crack, reverberating.

And Sammy _shrieking._   His body jerking under the lash.  And now Sammy sobbing loudly.

“Get up.”  Their dad’s voice.  But Sammy stayed where he was, face down on the bed.  Sobbing.

“Dean,” their dad said.  He was re-buckling his belt.  “Go help your brother.”

Dean was kneeling beside Sammy, pulling up his underwear and pants.  Sammy wasn’t helping him.  He was still clutching the bed.  Sobbing, bitterly.  “Sammy, c’mon,” Dean whispered.  “Shhh-“  He was fumbling with Sammy’s clothes, his hands shaking.

Sammy finally got up.  But then he turned and collapsed onto Dean.  Put his arms around Dean’s waist, sobbing. 

Dean hugging him.  Rocking him.  “Shh Sammy, s’okay, s’okay.  It’s over now, okay?  It’s over.”

“Hurts,” Sammy sobbed.  “It hurts, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean whispered.  He’d squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Dean.”  Their dad’s voice.  “Get into the corner.  Sammy, you too.  Opposite side.”

Dean stood up.  But Sammy stayed clinging to him.  “No!” he said. 

Dean was desperately trying to undo Sammy’s fingers.  “Sammy!” he whispered.  “Stop it!  Don’t get Dad riled again-“

“-NO!”  Sammy yelled.  He’d buried his face into Dean’s stomach, his arms clamped tight around Dean’s waist.  He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Sammy!” Dean said.  He was struggling to break Sammy’s hold on him.  “Stop it!  You gotta do what Dad says!  C’mon-“

But it was too late.  Their dad was there, gripping Sammy’s arms.  Undoing him from Dean.  Sammy was shrieking, a high shrill sound, twisting his little body violently back and forth.  Their dad’s face was white.

“Goddamn little _brat!”_ he said.  And his _voice_ \- that _voice_ – Dean felt a hole opening up inside of him, hearing that tone in their dad’s voice as he spoke to his younger son.  “Goddamn little troublemakin-“ and then their dad lifted Sammy high into the air, holding Sammy out in front of him with both hands. 

 _Dean_ was shrieking now.  _“Dad!_   Don’t-“

Their dad, holding Sammy up like he was contemplating smashing him down.  Or shaking him again.  Endlessly, this time.  And Dean, watching this.  Shrieking.  “Dad!  Dad!”  He saw their dad’s fingers flex against Sammy’s ribs.  Saw him start the shaking motion.  He _shrieked,_  “DAD!” and stepped forward to do… _something._   But then their dad just shook Sammy once, very slightly, and stopped.  Dean paused, staring.  Their dad glanced over at him briefly.  Then, still carrying Sammy, he strode over to the motel room’s little closet.  Opened it and set Sammy on the floor of the closet with a thump.  Closed the closet door.

Sammy shrieking behind the door, his voice muffled now.

Their dad turned to face Dean.  “You goddamn kids,” he said.  “I don’t know why I bother.  I should just leave you with Bobby for good.”  His voice was tired.  Sammy sobbing now, the sound muffled behind the door.

Dean stared at his dad, his dad’s dark eyes, so sad now, so filled with terrible grief.  Dean was crying, helplessly.

“No Dad,” Dean said.  And crying.  “I wanna stay with you.”

“Well maybe just Sammy then,” his dad said.  “We’ll drop him off tomorrow.”

 _“No_ Dad!” Dean said.  His stomach had tightened with fear.  “You can’t _do that._   Please.”

“Sammy ‘n’ I are no good together,” his dad said.  “And if he doesn’t learn to mind, it could put us in real danger, Dean.”

“I’ll look after him,” Dean said.  “I’ll make sure he minds, Dad.  _Please_ Dad.  I promise.”

His dad didn’t look convinced.

Dean felt panic rising.  Once their dad made up his mind, that was pretty much it.  “Bobby doesn’t want to look after Sammy, Dad,” he said.  “Not without me there.  He’s too busy drinkin.”

His dad looked at him.  Then smiled slightly.  “You noticed that, huh son?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  He wasn’t smiling back.  “Don’t leave Sammy behind.  Don’t do that.  _Please._   Please Dad.”  He was crying again.

His dad staring at him, not smiling now.  “Then you make sure he minds, Dean,” he said.  “And _you_ mind, too.  You mind _me,_ on this.  Sammy’s not gonna be the only one, gettin punished, if that doesn’t happen.  You understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Dean whispered.  Crying.

His dad silent.  Staring down at Dean thoughtfully.  Then he sighed.  “I’m goin out to get us some dinner,” he said.  “Until I come back, Sammy stays in the closet.  ‘N’ _you_ stand in the corner.  If that doesn’t happen Dean, then _both_ you boys are gettin another whippin.  Tomorrow.  You understand me?”

“Yes sir,”  Dean whispered.  Still crying but trying to calm himself down.  Conscious of the tears leaking from his eyes and his _nose_ leaking now, too.  He wiped an arm over his face, humilitated.

His dad was putting his jacket on.   “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said.  He left.

Dean turned to put himself in the corner his dad had pointed to.  He felt lightheaded with relief despite the throbbing pain in his butt.  His dad, threatening to split their family up.  Leaving him and Sammy behind.  Or worse, just _Sammy._   Dean had been terrified.

A voice from the closet.  “Dean?  C’n I come out?”

“No,” Dean called back.  “You stay there Sammy.  Until Dad gets back.  Like he said.”

The closet door opened.  Sammy crawled out.  He came over to Dean where he stood facing the corner.  Put his arms around him.

“But I wanna stay with you,” Sammy whispered.

“No!”  Dean snapped.  “Sammy get back in that closet _now!_   Like Dad _said!”_

Sammy shook his head.  He’d buried his face in Dean’s side.  “I don’t wanna,” he said.  “Don’t make me Dean, okay?”  And holding Dean tightly around the waist.

Suddenly Dean felt the strength leaving his legs.  He collapsed on the floor, hiding his face in his arms.

Sammy’s voice, high and frightened.  “Dean!”

“Just – just-“ and Dean was _sobbing,_ helplessly, his face pressed into the grimy motel carpet.  He clutched his stomach and _wailed_ , a deep throated wailing cry, deep into the carpet.

“Dean!”  Sammy’s voice, frightened.  _“Dean!”_   And clutching at Dean, trying to turn his brother over.

“Just go _back there_ Sammy!”  Dean shouted at him.  “Just go back!  Before Dad gets back!  Why can’t you just _do that?_   Why’re you always _like_ this?”  And _sobbing_ now, loudly, helplessly, breath hitching, suddenly beyond humiliation.  Just burying his face in the carpet, his mouth open against it.  And _sobbing._   _Wailing,_ like he was Sammy’s age, not four years older.

Sammy had flung himself on top of Dean’s body.  He was crying again too, his ribs heaving, his voice loud in Dean’s ear.  _“Dean-“_  he sobbed.  But then he got himself up.  And stumbled back to the closet. Crawled inside and closed the door.  Dean was quiet now, listening to this.  He heard Sammy whimpering, snuffling.  But then nothing.

Dean stayed lying on the carpet for a few more moments.  Felt his breath, slowing down.  Then he dragged himself to his feet.  Faced the corner again, tiredly.  Leaned his forehead against the wall.

Conscious of the room, silent now.  With Sammy in the closet and him in the corner.  The two of them staying like that, obediently, like their dad had told them to.  Silent, still as stone.

Until their dad got back, with a takeout bag of burgers and fries.

So.

He and Sam had never talked about that day.

Ever.  They’d just moved on from it.   One memory among others, eventually buried deep.

And their family had gone on, afterwards, more or less the same, Dean and Sammy doing their best to live up to their dad’s stringent expectations…well… _Dean_ doing his best, with Sammy grudgingly following along.  And their dad whipping them any time he felt they needed it, punishing his sons according to his own harsh code of discipline, without particular favoritism, until it eventually became impossible for him to punish Sammy without potentially lethal consquences and _Dean_ took over that responsibility.  But then Dean eventually not whipping Sammy anymore either.  And _then,_ when everything had changed between him and his brother, Sammy’s punishment changing _too,_ changing into…something else.  Punishment still, sure (technically), but also…something else.  And _now,_ these last few months, into something else again, Dean wasn’t sure _what,_ exactly.  Could you even _call_ it punishment, the things that he and his brother were doing now, by mutual agreement?  Dean didn’t know. 

But Dean had realized something, that first night with Rhonda. 

Sam, his slim strong body curved over Rhonda, _fucking_ her, like he’d said he would, right under Dean’s eyes. 

And Sam’s voice, tight and cold with anger.

“You watchin, Dean?” 

And Dean watching, shaking.  Acknowledging this, barely able to speak.

And Sam’s voice.  Cold.  Deliberate.  Hard as stone.

_(Good.  You keep watchin)_

Sam.

Sam, when he’d said that.

He’d sounded exactly like their dad.

***

Watching Sam enjoy having a girlfriend.  It was even more rewarding actually, than having one himself.

Not that Dean didn’t enjoy having a girlfriend.  He _was_ enjoying it, actually.  A lot.

Now that he and Rhonda had gotten over their rocky start they were pretty relaxed with each other.  Cool about things, you know?  They’d poke at each other, joke around (and had Dean _ever_ done that with a girl?  Not that he could remember).  And the sex – it was pretty awesome, nothing to complain about (sex with Rhonda –it was different from sex with Sam and not just because Rhonda was a girl). 

Sex with Sam.  It was…addictive.  It was like

_the adrenaline high of the hunt/sharp hit of whiskey at the back of the throat the brain that night flower opening/final life death heat of the supernatural kill you and the monster in a lethal embrace eyes locked the two of you staring into the blackness reflected in each other’s eyes back and back and life so sweet now suddenly, that piercing sweet honey taste of life on a knife edge of infinite darkness-_

every fucking addictive thing out there but _also_ like oxygen, water and food.

So.

Sex with Sam. 

Like dying.  Like life.  Like

_my Sam/Sammy and back and back into infinity_

everything.

 _Everything,_ possible.  All at once.

So yeah. 

Sex with Rhonda.

It wasn’t like that.

Sex with Rhonda was kind of like taking a break from that. 

Rhonda and Dean, wrestling around on her bed.  Sam downstairs, making himself a sandwich.

Rhonda giggling.  Or _gasping,_ more like it.  With laughter.

“Dean!”  Gasping.  “Stop tickling me!”

Dean holding her down.  Tickling her. 

Rhonda, struggling feebly.  “Dean!   _Stop it!_   _I mean it!”_   But still laughing helplessly.

Dean tickling her.  “Or you’ll do what?”

Rhonda gasping, breathless.  “Or I’ll…do… _this!”_   And grappling him suddenly.  Tickling him _back._

Dean yelping.  “Hey!”  Trying to twist away from her fingers.  And Rhonda hooting.  Clamping those strong runner’s legs around Dean’s waist and digging her fingers into his armpits.  And _Dean_ laughing now, trying to bat her away, rather uselessly.  _“Fuck_ Rhonda you’re fuckin strong, Jesus!”

And Rhonda hooting.  “Sure am, you little wimp!”  And _tickling_ him, looking super pleased with herself.

Then Dean deciding enough of this and grabbing her, flipping her onto her back.  Leaning over her, his arms on either side of her head.  _“Wimp,_ huh?”

Rhonda, grinning up at him.  “Yeah.”

Dean grinning back.  Then leaning down and _kissing_ her, his best loverboy kiss.  Raising his head, looking down, Rhonda looking up, her eyes hazy now.  “Fuck,” she whispered.  “Do that again.”

But Dean was unzipping himself, struggling out of his jeans and shorts without standing up.  “In a second,” he said.  “C’n you get me a condom?”

Rhonda rolling her eyes.  But turning and retrieving a plastic wrapped condom from the night table drawer.  Flipping it to him.  “Here.”

Dean plucked it out of the air.  “Thanks.”  Now fumbling with the condom, rather awkwardly.  “What’s-“

Rhonda sighing.  “You’ve got it upside down again.  Jeez what’s _with_ you?”  And sitting up, taking the condom from Dean and fitting it over him, rolling it down over his cock.   Grumbling.  “I don’t know why you haven’t got the hang of this by now.  _Sam’s_ so much better at it.”

Dean looked at her.  Then took her by the shoulders.  Pushed her back onto the bed.  Grabbed the waistband of her sweatpants and yanked them down, exposing her smooth belly and thighs, the triangle of dark hair.  Peeled the sweats off her, Rhonda grinning again, staring up at him.  Dean pushed her legs apart.  Then entered her, a smooth tight thrust.  “Oh yeah?  So’s Sam better at _this?”_  

Rhonda’s intake of breath.  “No,” she said after a moment.  “Not better.”

Dean smiling.  “No, huh?”  And thrusting again, angling his cock just right.  Looking down at Rhonda’s face, watching her expression as he did this.  “So you still think I’m a wimp?”  And thrusting, _hard._   Rhonda made her little moaning sound.  Dean smiled.  “Still think I’m _little?”_   And thrusting.

Rhonda’s eyes had fluttered shut.  “Not so much,” she gasped.   Raised her mouth.

Dean wasn’t ready to oblige her just yet.  “Guess I got the hang of _this_ at least, huh?”   

 _“Yeah,”_ Rhonda breathed.  And her mouth, raised pleadingly.  “Sure do.”

Dean grinning now.  Then dipping his head and _kissing_ her, kissing her the way Sam had taught him, stroking, _owning_ Rhonda’s mouth with his mouth, his tongue.  And Rhonda moaning into his mouth, shuddering helplessly, the two of them rocking into each other, until Dean felt himself coming and put his fingers on her, burrowing them between Rhonda’s legs, between their joined bodies, his fingers finding her clit, pressing down on it as pleasure washed over him, barely conscious of Rhonda shrieking against his mouth and jolting up against him, shuddering.

Afterwards, lying together, still joined.  “So how was that?” Dean murmured.

”Not bad,” Rhonda murmured back.

Dean snorted.  “Not bad,” he said.  “How about, ‘That was totally _awesome,_ Dean.  You are one totally awesome fuck.  Best fuck _ever.’_ ”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  Dean could hear her smiling.  “Okay.  That _was_ awesome Dean.  You _are_ one totally awesome fuck.”

“Best _ever,”_ Dean prompted.

Rhonda had closed her eyes.  She was smiling.  Dean poked her.

“Hey!”

“Best _ever,”_ Dean repeated.  Added, “Like, _miles_ better than that lame ex-boyfriend of yours.”  And he raised his head, looked down at Rhonda who was pursing her lips thoughtfully.  After a moment she nodded.  Dean nodded back.  But he wasn’t done.  “And better than _Sam._   Right?”

“Well-“

“C’mon!” Dean said.  “How’m I _not_ better?”

“You’re _different,”_ Rhonda said.  “But Sam’s pretty awesome too.”

Dean knew that, actually.  He was grinning.  “But I’m _bigger_ than him.  Right?”

Rhonda laughed.

Dean poked her again.  Rhonda batted at him.  _“Hey!_ Cut that out!”

“I’m _bigger_ than him,” he repeated.  Grinning.  “Where it counts.  Right?”

Rhonda, laughing.  “Even if I _could_ tell…I’d _never_ tell.”

“Never tell what?”  This was Sam.  Dean looked over his shoulder.  Sam was standing in the bedroom doorway, a sandwich in one hand.  He was chewing.

“Sam,” Rhonda said.  “Go away!  You _know_ we’re giving each other privacy now.  We _talked_ about this, remember?  You wait till Dean ‘n’ I are done before you come in.”

Sam didn’t move.  “I thought you _were_ done,” he said.  “I could _hear_ you.  Along with the rest of the neighbourhood.”  And staring down at them, chewing.

“Sam,” Rhonda said.  “Out!”

Sam didn’t budge.  “I’ll leave once you answer my question.”  And chewing.

Dean sighed.  Pulled himself out of Rhonda and sat up, peeling the slimy condom off and tossing it onto the floor (okay, so he was gross and Rhonda would make him pick it up later, but whatever).  Then he folded the quilt over Rhonda and himself, shielding their naked bodies from Sam’s gaze according to the new rules Dean had set down. 

_(Rules he’d eventually insisted upon because it was too dangerous for him and Sam to watch each other like this.  Because either one of them could slip, so easily.)_

“We were sortin out who’s bigger,” Dean said.  “You know, like, _bigger.”_   And he grinned at his brother.  “Rhonda was about to confirm it was me.”

“-No I wasn’t!” Rhonda said.

“Oh?” Sam said.  “So it’s _me_ then, right?  I thought so.”

“No…” Rhonda said.  And then, “I didn’t say that!”

“She’s just bein tactful,” Dean said to his brother.  “It’s me.”

Sam stared down at him.  Raised his eyebrows.  Then turned expectantly towards Rhonda.  After a moment Dean turned and looked at her too.

Rhonda, laughing helplessly.  “Guys,” she said.  “That’s one question I’m _never_ answering.  Okay?  Like, _ever._   I’m Switzerland, remember?”

Sam nodded.  Swallowed the last bite of his sandwich.  Turned and left the room, clattering down the stairs.  “That’s okay,” he called up.  “You c’n be Switzerland all you want, doesn’t change anythin.  Because we all know it’s definitely _me.”_

Dean glared silently after him.

But Rhonda was pulling up her sweatpants, laughing.  “You asked for that,” she said to Dean.  “That was your fault, for bringing it up in the first place.  Ask a stupid _question_ and _…”_  She shrugged, philosophically.

Dean had flopped back on the bed, a forearm over his eyes.  “Jesus,” he muttered.  “The shit I put up with.”

And Rhonda, laughing.  But then bending forward, pulling the quilt off Dean and putting her face between his legs.  Nuzzling Dean’s damp, tired cock.  Cooing.  “Don’t _you_ worry about the _competition_ big boy.  You’re so _awesome_ all on your _own_ you fabulous great big beautiful manpiece, you.  Just so awesome awesome _awesome!  Mmm mmm MMMM!_ ”  And smooching him, tenderly nuzzling Dean’s cock.  Cooing, smacking her lips over it.

And _Dean_ laughing now, helplessly.

So yeah.  Sex with Rhonda was different from sex with Sam.  Not _better_ of course.  But different.  _Fun,_ that was it.  Just fun.

And it was cool, being able to just have fun like that.

And hanging out at Rhonda’s house, that was pretty cool too (and Dean had never felt particularly welcome or comfortable in other people’s houses except for Bobby’s, so having this easy, comfortable access to Rhonda’s house, her things…nothing to complain about there either, especially her little indoor weightroom). 

But the really cool thing was seeing how much _Sam_ enjoyed Rhonda’s house.   

And that was more than just cool.  Sometimes Dean would actually feel tears in his eyes, watching Sam unfold himself so luxuriously in the comfort of Rhonda’s house, sprawling himself out like a cat.

Dean had never really seen Sam do that.  Just be himself, so casual and relaxed.

Because Sam had always been so guarded, Dean realized that now.  Watching himself around their dad and yeah, Dean too.   Always mindful of the hunter’s code of conduct that he’d learned so painfully.  Guarding their family’s secrets ( _all_ of them).  And also…keeping to the expectations Dean had of him, Dean’s expectations of _Sam,_ Dean’s everything and everything that had come to mean.  Sam, always conscious of living up to that (or not, and the consquences of that, too). 

And Dean could see it now.  What this had been like for his brother.  Always to be careful.  Always to be on guard.  Against getting hurt.  Or causing hurt.  Or sometimes…just going ahead and _causing_ hurt, on purpose, in bitter anger. 

Sam, always so painfully conscious of this.  Getting by as best he could under the intent, anxious, helplessly expectant eyes of his older brother.  Under the intent, cold eyes of their dad.

Dean could see how it had been for him, suddenly.

Because now he saw Sam in another way.  He saw his little brother just hanging out, for the first time in his life.

Hanging out like a teenager.  A brainy, goofy, occasionally obnoxious sixteen year old boy.

(Who’d just had his first real birthday party too, Sam sitting at his usual booth in the diner, a chocolate cake in front of him, sixteen candles burning and a group of them gathered around, Rhonda, Shelley, Patricia, Cal and Jackson and Kyle, Sam’s lab buddy from school, and Dean, all singing).  And Sam, suddenly staring up at all of them with tears in his eyes (and Dean, tears in _his_ eyes watching this, but quickly blinking them away before Sam could see).

And Dean had realized, at that moment, watching Sam appreciating _his_ moment…how much he’d missed seeing Sam like that.

In moments like that.

He’d never even considered the _possibility_ of seeing his brother in moments like that.

But he’d missed them, terribly.  He understood that now.

And seeing Sam just hanging at Rhonda’s house, spreading himself out with the rights of a boyfriend (or maybe not quite like a _boyfriend_ exactly, somehow when she wasn’t fucking him, Rhonda seemed to treat Sam more like an adopted little brother –or maybe a _sister?_ ) but anyway, Sam romping through Rhonda’s unremarkable small town house like it was Disneyland (complete with a hot princess)…

Sam, who’d somehow arranged this for himself.  And Dean, allowing his brother to have it.

And now to see Sam _enjoying_ it.

 _Enjoying_ , just being. 

A (kind of) normal kid.

It was rewarding.

And not only that.

Seeing Sam like that…it made _Dean_ feel like he could relax too.

Just to relax, you know?  And enjoy things too, for the short time he and Sam had left in this place, before Sam was finished with school for the year and their dad came back for them.

But until then, Dean able to just be normal too (kind of) _,_ for a just little while.

Just _be._  A regular civilian type with a steady job and a girlfriend (and so okay, _still_ with a hot/wild/sweet little brother, Dean’s secret, Dean’s eternal responsibility, his secret wife, his Sammy, who _defined_ high maintenance but at least he was behaving himself right now –mostly-) and a (kind of) normal routine.

But okay, still able to enjoy it.   For a little while.  _Relax_ into it (to a point).

Dean could see the possibility of that now.

And so he was letting himself.  Relax.  And enjoy civilian life.  Cautiously.

Because Sam enjoyed seeing that _,_ he’d been real clear about that.

To see _Dean_ enjoying himself, that made Sam happy.  He’d said so.

And Dean had realized.  That he wanted to see that, too.

***

After leaving Rhonda’s, that first day.  After Dean had given in, _not_ dragging Sam out of Rhonda’s house, _not_ taking off with him and driving the two of them west to re-join their dad.

After Dean had let Sam…fuck Rhonda.  In _front_ of him and Dean taking that pain, like a knife twisting into his guts.

But then fucking her _too_ (and that had been fun, no lie).  And later, falling asleep with Rhonda in his arms, Sam’s fingers in his hair.  Waking up like that, with Sam’s eyes on him, golden.  And later, the three of them laughing over breakfast.

And after that, kissing Rhonda goodbye, her eyes on him tentative, vulnerable suddenly.  But then _Sam_ kissing her too, smacking Rhonda enthusiastically on the lips.  And Dean realizing, with some surprise, that it _didn’t_ hurt him, to see Sam kiss Rhonda like that.

Now driving back to the shack.  Leaving Rhonda with time to shower and dress before her mom got home, Rhonda on Sunday shift today (and Dean not working for once, he’d done a couple of double shifts earlier that week, fourteen hours at a stretch, and Cal was giving him Sunday off).

So now he and Sam had the day to themselves.

Just the two of them.

Dean, driving silently.  Sam sitting beside him.  Nervously.

Dean driving.  Sam. 

“…Dean?”

“What.”

“You mad?”

“’Bout what?”

“’Bout…you _know_ what about.  Don’t be a moron.”

Dean smiled briefly.  “Insulting me, Sammy.”

“…Sorry.”

Silence.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Uh huh.”

Silence.

“Well…are you _gonna?”_

“Not right now.”

Sam’s voice, rising.  “Why _not?”_

“Cause I’m drivin,” Dean said.  He was conscious of Sam’s eyes on him.  He smiled again.  Didn’t look at his brother.  “I’m concentratin on the road,” he said serenely.  “We c’n talk after we get home.”

Sam crossed his arms.  Then his legs.  Huffed out his breath.  Shifted around in his seat.

Nervously.

Dean smiled.  He kept driving.

Later, back at the shack.

Dean had just closed the door.  Locked it.  Glanced over at Sam.

Who was staring back at him, palely.

“You gonna…” Sam began.

Dean was taking off his jacket.  “What?”

 _“Punish_ me?” Sam asked him.  He was whispering now.

“You askin for that?” Dean said.  He was pouring himself a drink from the bottle of Dewars.

“No,” Sam said.  “I’m not.”

“Well I guess you’re not gettin it then,” Dean said.  Glanced at his brother.

Who was staring back at him, eyes wide.

Dean shrugged.  “I keep my word,” he said.   “Only if you say, remember?”  And he drained his glass.  Poured himself another, a generous splash.

“Dean,” Sam said.  “Go easy.  It’s not even eleven a.m., c’mon.”

Dean nodded, agreeably.  “Yeah, well…it’s gotta be six o’clock somewhere.”  He drained the glass again.

“You sound like Dad,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.  “There’s worse things,” he said.  He was pouring himself a third glass.

“Dean please,” Sam said.  Dean looked at him.  “Stop,” Sam whispered.  His eyes glimmering now in the dim room.

Dean put down the glass.  Looked at his brother.

His totally exasperating, beautiful brother, who’d just manipulated Dean into doing something he’d never thought he’d do in a million years.  Who’d just enacted Dean’s worst nightmare (well, _one_ of them) right under Dean’s eyes.  And gotten Dean to _agree_ to it, no less.

“You’re somethin else, Sammy,” Dean said.  Watching Sam’s face as he said this.

Sam.  “…Yeah…?” he said.  Cautiously.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  And watched his brother.

Sam staring back at him, pale again.

Dean observed this.  A moment went by.  And then another.  Sam standing there, frozen under Dean’s gaze.   Sam was at the end of his play, Dean realized.  He’d made his big move and now it was up to Dean.

And Sam waiting on that now, his eyes raw.

Dean watched this quietly.  But then he held out his arms.  “C’mere,” he murmured. 

Sam looked at him. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said.

Sam staring.  He was shaking now, as white as a sheet.  Dean saw him swallow.  But then he stepped forward.   And walked into Dean’s arms.

Dean’s arms, folding around him.

Sam was crying.

“I love you,” he whispered.  “Dean.  I love you.”  His face now buried in Dean’s throat, his own arms around Dean’s waist. 

“I know,” Dean whispered back.  He was rocking his brother in his arms, Sam’s slender body clasped against him.  Sam was shaking.  “I love you too,” Dean murmured to him.

Sam crying.  “I just wanted to… _do_ that.  Dean.  I just wanted to, you know?”

Dean rocked him.  “I know,” he whispered.  “I get it.”

“You _do?”_ Sam asked him.  He was snuffling against Dean’s neck.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He’d put his nose into Sam’s silky hair.  “I do.”

“You’re not mad?” Sam snuffled.

Dean smiled into Sam’s hair.  “Well I sorta am,” he said.  “I won’t lie.  But what good’s _that_ ever done?”  And rocking his brother.

“Not much,” Sam said.  Mumbling now.  His own nose was against Dean’s neck.  It felt like a little dab of ice.  Dean winced.  “Jeez Sam, your _nose,”_ he said.

“What, is it cold?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  But rocking his brother, murmuring to him.  “But that’s okay.  I love that cold little nose.  I’d know it anywhere.  Put it on me blind I’d know it.”

“Sorry,” Sam whispered.

Dean smiled.  “Sure you are,” he murmured.  “Just like you’re sorry about everything else you are that’s totally aggravatin.”  And kissing the side of Sam’s neck, his tongue against the salty skin.

“Guess I’m not really sorry,” Sam mumbled.  He was leaning on Dean now, letting Dean take his weight.

Dean smiled against Sam’s neck.  “No,” he said.  “Guess not.”  And kissing Sam, nibbling on his neck.

“Dean,” Sam mumbled.  “You’re ticklin.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  Nibbling.  “Oh well.”  He was walking Sam backwards towards their bed.

“Dean-“ Sam said.  “Hey-“

“Yeah?”

“What’re you-” Sam began.   And then, “Oof!”  He’d fallen back on the bed, Dean on top of him.

Dean was grinning down at him.  “What’s it look like?”  His hands were on Sam’s belt, unbuckling him, unzipping his brother’s jeans.  “Lift up,” he said.

Sam raised his butt.  “Haven’t you fucked enough in the last twenty-four hours?” he said.  Dean grinned.  “Nope,” he answered.  “But right now we’re doin something else.”  He was peeling Sam’s jeans and shorts down his legs.  Knelt to pull off his brother’s runners and socks, then yanked Sam’s clothes the rest of the way off.   “Dean,” Sam grumped.  “It’s freezin in here, c’mon.“

“I’ll warm you up,” Dean said.  He ran his palms up over Sam’s smooth legs, knelt over him again.  Observed his brother’s cock, which was hard now.  “Well hello,” Dean said.  Bent and brushed his lips against it.   Fitted his mouth over it.  Sucked it back.

 _“Dean,”_ Sam gasped.  “Oh-“

And Dean sucking on him _hard_ now, taking no prisoners, curling his tongue around Sam’s cock, working it the way he knew Sam liked. 

Sam was moaning.  He’d clutched his hands into Dean’s hair.  Yanked on him, rather painfully.

Dean paused.  Raised his head.  “Ouch Sammy,” he said. 

Sam released his hair.  “Sorry,” he gasped. 

Dean was shaking his head.  “Jeez,” he said.  “What’s _with_ you guys?  Between you n’ _her,_ surprised I’m not bald by now.”

“…What?” Sam gasped.  But Dean had lowered his head.  Taken Sam’s cock in his mouth again.

“Oh, _oh!”_   And Sam moaning.  And eventually coming, sweetly coming into Dean’s mouth, the way Dean could make him do that. 

And now the two of them, lying there quiet, Dean’s cheek resting against Sam’s flat belly, Sam’s fingers in his hair. 

“What was _that_ for?” Sam murmured.

“Icebreaker,” Dean murmured back.  “You looked so scared when we got home I thought you were gonna throw up.”  Sam laughed.  But then said, “So does that mean you…forgive me?”

Dean didn’t answer. 

Sam’s fingers, stroking him.  “Dean?”  And now he sounded very young.

Dean sighed.  He put a hand on Sam’s smooth hard thigh, the feel of it, under his palm.  Stroked Sam’s thigh gently.  “Yeah,” Dean said.  “Guess so.”

“Thank you,” Sam whispered.

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  He’d turned his face against Sam’s belly.  Kissed it.  “You’re welcome.”

“I’m kinda surprised,” Sam said after a moment.  “That you’re not…er…”

“Spankin your butt raw?” Dean asked him.

Sam laughed shakily.  Took a breath.  “Yeah,” he said.

“I’m not goin to, Sammy,” Dean said.  “Not for this.”

“Why not?” Sam asked him.

Dean considered.  “I guess cause…fair’s fair,” he answered, eventually.

“…Fair’s _fair?”_ Sam repeated.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  Then said, “I forgive you…if you forgive me.”

“I forgive _you,”_ Sam repeated.  He sounded thoughtful now.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“For wh-“ Sam began.  But then he was quiet.  But suddenly Dean felt his brother’s body tighten up, those lean muscles going taut as wire.  And Sam’s hand, now resting motionless on top of Dean’s head.  Dean felt this and stopped breathing.

I forgive you. 

Dean’s words, floating in the still air of the room.

If.

_(You watchin, Dean?)_

_(Yeah.  I’m watchin, Sammy)_

Because fair’s fair.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered again.  And his eyes squeezed shut suddenly.  His cheek, pressed tight against Sam’s belly.  And silent.  Waiting.  But listening, into that silence.

To the memory of tears echoing, back and back.

_I’m watchin, Sammy._

_(forgive me)_

“Okay,” Sam said, after a moment.  And he _did_ sound okay.  Reasonable.  “I guess that works.”

But then silence again.  But then his brother’s voice, soft in Dean’s ears.  And Sam’s body easing,  stretching out, relaxing under Dean’s weight.  His fingers, back to stroking Dean’s hair.

“Fair’s fair,” Sam said softly.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.  And he felt his own body easing.  Settling, under the light touch of Sam’s fingers.

“You think you could get up?” Sam asked eventually.  “Put some wood on the stove?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  But he didn’t move.  He felt surprisingly tired.  Exhausted.

“What should we do today?” Sam asked after a few more minutes.  “You wanna do somethin?”

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “I could just sort of use the day to lay around though.  But we’ll train later, get some target practice in with the guns and the crossbow.  Sound good?”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “’N’ I have some homework to do, anyways.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  And he was quiet.  Lying there. 

“I guess _I’ll_ put the wood on,” Sam said eventually.  He was up, pulling his jeans back on, hunting around in his duffel bag.   He swore.  Dean raised his head at this, propping himself up on one elbow and looking over at his brother.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.  Sam was hunting through _Dean’s_ duffel bag now.  “We are _completely_ out of clean socks,” Sam grumped.  “Where’s the laundry bag?”

“In the trunk,” Dean said.  “But it’s dirty.  We forgot to go to the laundromat.  You want to drive back to town to do it?”

“Not really,” Sam said.  “I’ll take care of it tomorrow after school.  Say,” he said.  “You think I could take our laundry to Rhonda’s house?  I’d rather go there than sit in the laundromat.  Think I could ask her?”

“Um, I dunno,” Dean said.  “That might piss her off.”

Sam looked at him.  “What…me askin her if I c’n go to her place ‘n’ do _laundry?”_

“Well…yeah,” Dean said. 

Sam, looking at him.  “Like, Rhonda, you were pretty cool about me askin you to fuck me _and_ my brother but _laundry_ now…that’s another thing,” he said.

Dean laughing.  “Well…you put it like that…” he said.

Sam was smiling at him.  “Lemme ask,” he said.  Coaxingly.

Dean sighed.  But also smiling.  “Sure,” he said.  “Okay.  Guess it can’t hurt at this point.”

Sam was pulling on his old socks, making a face.  “She was pretty cool about us stayin over too,” he said.  “Maybe we c’n do that again.  Next time her mom’s workin overnight.  I _really_ enjoyed that shower.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  “Don’t get _too_ comfortable over there, okay Sammy?  I don’t want you bein disappointed.”

“Disappointed in what?” Sam asked.

Dean paused.  “In…I dunno…whatever you were lookin for when you started this whole thing, ” he said.

“Which was what?” Sam asked.

Dean looked at him. 

“What am I lookin for?” Sam asked.

“I dunno…” Dean replied, slowly.  “Why’re you asking _me?”_

“Because you _do_ know,” Sam said.  “You know better than me, I think.”

Dean was quiet.    

Sam’s eyes on him.  “You know,” he whispered.

And Dean felt those eyes, that voice, on him suddenly, brushing over his skin.  Every nerve in his body suddenly tingling. 

Sam’s voice, that dark note in it.

_(What am I looking for?)_

Dean was quiet.  Sam, those eyes on him.  Sam, this tall, lithe, graceful youth gazing at Dean with those eyes.  Those weird colour eyes under sharply angled brows, Sam, his narrow, sharply angled face with those cheekbones. 

Sam, so gorgeous now.  Dean’s baby, all grown up. 

Dean couldn’t look at Sam suddenly.  He looked away.  “I _don’t_ know, Sammy,” he said.  “I _never_ know, with you.”

“It’s not just about me,” Sam said. 

Dean was quiet. 

“It’s okay Dean,” Sam said after a moment.  Then added, in a mild tone.  “You don’t have to answer my question right now.” 

“Wow, thanks,” Dean muttered.

“Sure,” Sam said.  Kindly.

Dean snorted. 

Sam laughed.  “So I just want you to relax, okay?” he said.  “Stop worryin so much.  Just let yourself _relax._   Go with the flow.  And just let me –just let things…be.  You c’n do that, right?”

Dean glanced up.  Sam standing there, smiling down at him.  “You c’n do that, right?”  he repeated.  Then added, “For _me?”_    And he blinked.

Dean laughed, reluctantly.  “Okay you little brat, Jesus,” he said.  “I’ll… _relax._   ‘N’ let you have your fun. _”_

Sam was grinning now.  “Thanks Dean,” he said.  “You’re the best.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said dryly. 

“It’ll be a blast,” Sam said.  And grinning now, from ear to ear.  “Hangin out at Rhonda’s house ‘n’ all.  You’ll see.”

Dean sighed.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just remember to be careful.  About us.  In front of _her._   Okay?”

Sam had turned away from him.  He was over at the stove now, loading it up with wood.   “Sure,” he replied casually.

“I’m serious,” Dean said.  And his voice was different.  Sam heard this, turned around.

“We can’t mess around with that,” Dean said.   Looking at his brother.  “Not ever.” 

Sam looked back. 

“You ‘n’ I, we’re warded,” Dean continued.  “Warded strong.  _Nothin_ supernatural’s gonna get into us.  But that’s not the same for Rhonda.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked him.

“You know what I mean,” Dean said.  “ Right now Rhonda’s just a civilian, not too interestin to the spirits even if she _is_ a hunter’s girl.  So as long as we’re not doin anything around her that moves us into supernatural territory, they’ll ignore her.  That’s the old agreement.  The supernatural doesn’t mess with us if we don’t mess with them.”

Sam gazed at him.  Then turned back to the stove.  Finished firing it up.  Dean watched this silently.  Sam closed the stove’s door and came back to Dean on the bed.  Sat down.  He took Dean’s hand.  “What agreement is that?” he asked.  _“I_ never heard about it.”

“Sure you did,” Dean said.  He was stroking Sam’s hand.  “Bobby must’ve told you.  Agreement’s been in place since biblical times.  I’m surprised at you Sammy, for not rememberin.”

Sam shrugged.  “Guess I wasn’t payin attention,” he said. 

“Yeah, well that agreement’s the whole reason hunters exist,” Dean said.  “We protect the border.  The divide, I mean, between the supernatural world and the human one.  And if someone or _somethin_ disrespects it, like a witch for example or a rogue spirit…we step in.”

“So we don’t do anythin to them unless they do somethin to us?” Sam asked.

“Exactly,” Dean replied.  “Supernatural stays on its side of the divide, we leave it alone.  And _we_ don’t go _there,_ Sammy, us humans, I mean.  That’s forbidden too, except in certain special circumstances.  That’s why hunters take down witches ‘n’ such.  Cause when we cross over we create a bridge.  ‘N’ spirits _love_ that.  They’ll take any excuse to travel back with us to _our_ world ‘n’ cause all sorts of trouble.”

“How do we create the bridge?” Sam asked.

“We are the bridge,” Dean said. 

“You mean like…carriers,” Sam said after a moment.  “Spirit vectors.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s one way of lookin at it.  You enter the supernatural, you carry it back with you.  Unless you’re warded.”

“Warded,” Sam repeated.  “Like us.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Are all hunters warded?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s a basic condition of huntin.  Cause even bein _aware_ of the supernatural, Sammy, like hunters have to be, to do what we do…that opens you to its influence.  You start messin with the supernatural without warding…before you know it…you’re part of it.”

“Possessed,” Sam said.  “Is that what you mean?”

“Sometimes,” Dean said.  “Sometimes it’s just that the spirits become aware of _you._   You start to stand out to them.  And then they start lookin for ways to _use_ you…your human awareness… your like, quality of bein in the world…for their own purposes.  Just like when witches use spells to harness spirit power and manipulate spirits for _their_ own purposes.”

“Wow,” Sam said.  “Where’d you get all _that?”_

“Bobby,” Dean said.  “’N’ Dad.  Pastor Jim.  Where’d you think?”

“I dunno,” Sam said.  “I guess…you just sounded really informed.  It’s kinda surprisin.”

Dean snorted.  “Fuck off,” he said.  “You’re not the only one interested in learnin stuff.  Top level hunters like Bobby ‘n’ Pastor Jim and yeah, even _Dad,_ although I know you don’t want to hear that…they’ve taught me a lot, Sammy.  And they’d teach _you_ too, if you showed them you were even halfway interested, instead of just rollin your eyes all the time.”

Sam smiled at him.  “I don’t need them to teach me,” he said.  “I’ve got _you_.”

Dean felt tired suddenly.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Guess so.”

They were both quiet.

“’Quality of _bein in the world_ ,’” Sam said eventually, thoughtfully.  “What’s that…your _humanity?”_

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s it.  You start messin with the supernatural, Sammy, you put your humanity at risk.  It’s out there on the table, like a pile of poker chips for some spirit to scoop up.  Unless you’re warded.”

“So if you’re warded, _then_ you c’n mess with the supernatural.”  Sam said.

“No,” Dean said.  “You can’t mess with it if you’re warded.  That’s the whole point.  You have to be open to the supernatural Sammy, for it to be open to you.  If you’re warded, supernatural won’t come near you.  It won’t even _see_ you – the _real_ you, that is…all it’ll see is the warding.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“When you’re warded, it’s like you’re wearin armour,” Dean said.  “All the supernatural’ll see is the armour.  It won’t see what’s inside.”

“’N’ that means you’re left alone?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Pretty much.  Spirits avoid people who are warded as a rule.  It’s like criminals avoidin the police.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.  “You get warded, it’s a sign.  Like you got somethin under there.  You’d think spirits would be interested in that.  You’d think they’d _want_ to mess with someone warded.  See what they’re hidin.”

Dean looked at him with respect.  “Smart kid.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Fuck off,” he said.  “It wasn’t _that_ smart.  Isn’t that kind of like, _obvious?”_

“Not to everyone,” Dean replied.  “But anyway…you’re right.  Warding makes you noticeable.  Just like puttin on a uniform.  But it also makes you _impenetrable,_ unless you do somethin stupid that is.  So spirits see the warding, they know _somethin’s_ under there but they don’t know what.  Could be somethin, could be nothin, just a regular hunter puttin on the equivalent of a bulletproof vest.  And messin with warding’s very dangerous.  Tryin to remove it against someone’s will’s like tinkerin with a bomb.  That bomb goes off, _everythin’s_ destroyed – the person, the spirit and whatever that person’s hidin under their warding spell too…so spirits don’t consider the risk worthwhile, as a rule.  Better to just leave the warded humans alone.  And that’s the original deal anyway, right?  Spirits and humans, we leave each other alone…’n’ hunters are there to take out the rogues who disrespect that.  And anyhow, most spirits are lazy.  Opportunists.  They go after the low hangin fruit.  The humans who put themselves out there.  The ones who _want_ to be messed with.”

“The ones who put up a sign,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“Like _us,_ I guess,” Sam said.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“Us…bein together like we are…that’s like hangin up a sign,” Sam replied.  “That _we’re_ available.  For messin with.  That was your whole point, earlier.”

Dean was quiet.  “Yeah,” he said, eventually.  “Breakin a taboo like incest…that’s like puttin up the _Hollywood_ sign you’re available.  Attracts spirit attention for sure.  And you might have the bad luck to attract one…you _really_ don’t want to be messin with.”

“But _we’re_ okay though, right?” Sam said.  “Cause we’re warded.  Protected.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “We’re warded.  Spirits know _somethin’s_ goin on...but they can’t _prove_ anything.  So they leave us alone, just like they leave other hunters alone.  And also…” and Dean smiled slightly, “they’re scared of us, Sammy.  Of _me,_ I mean, but that means you too of course.  After that hunt in New Hampshire, I have a rep.”

“So what are you so worried about then?” Sam asked him.  “Why do we have to tiptoe around Rhonda?  Somehow I don’t think she’d care…about us, I mean.  I mean, it might freak her out at the beginning, but she’d get over it.”

“Apart from the fact she might _not_ get over it,” Dean said, “and you can’t forget Sammy, you’re still underage…not exactly a consentin adult…we _are_ breakin a taboo.  We’re givin the spirits _real_ good cause to mess with us, and they’d be within their rights to do that, just like hunters would be.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

“Cause we’re trespassin on supernatural territory just by bein together,” Dean replied.  “Humans fuckin like gods…that crosses the line.”

“But you just said they can’t _see_ that,” Sam said.  “We’re warded.”

“Yeah, but Rhonda’s not,” Dean said.  “She’s as transparent as glass.  Spirits can see right into her…’n’ they c’n _get_ right into her too, if they’re prepared to break the agreement ‘n’ cross the divide from spirit to flesh.  Rhonda doesn’t have more than the normal, natural human protection against spiritual interference.  She’s just like any other civilian.  And if Rhonda’s connected with us…when _we’re_ connected like that…she’s gonna broadcast that loud ‘n’ clear.  It’ll be like the smell of a wildcat in heat.  Every spirit within sniffin distance’ll sit up and take notice.  And trust me,” Dean said.  “They’ll pounce.”

Sam stared at him.  “Why?” he asked.

“Cause when a _hunter_ goes rogue…especially a hunter like me…supernatural’s not gonna let that pass,” Dean answered.

Sam looked sceptical.  “What do you mean, a hunter like you?” he said.  “You’re still just a kid.  You’re only _nineteen._   You’re not like Bobby.  Or Dad.  Why are _you_ such a threat?”

Dean smiled.  “Thanks for the plug,” he said.  “Sure I’m young but you gotta remember Sammy, I _did_ kill a spirit on its own ground.  I _am_ a threat.  And also…I’m someone they’d love to take out.”

Sam looked at him.

“The supernatural _does_ know about you,” Dean said.  “That’s how they came to me in the first place, remember?  That spirit I killed…it didn’t show up until _you_ were in the picture.  And then I dissed it by refusin to let you go.  So the supernatural knows _somethin_ alright.  They just can’t _see_ it right now.  And also…we _are_ John Winchester’s sons.  _And_ we’re under the protection of Bobby Singer.  That _means_ somethin, Sammy, don’t you think it doesn’t.  No spirit’s gonna mess with us lightly.  But Rhonda-“  Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “If she crossed into their territory…because of us…she’d be their window into what’s really goin on.  She’d give them plenty of cause to go after us.  And they would, Sammy, trust me.” 

Sam stared back at him, silent. 

“And Rhonda’d be right in the crossfire,” Dean said.   “I don’t want to be responsible for that.  Do you?”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “But…she’s okay.   Right?  Because we’re just bein brothers, around her.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “She’s okay.  Right now.  She’s got a bit of a shine on her from hangin out with hunters but as long as we don’t break any taboos around her, she’s okay.  Still a civilian.”

“Can’t you protect her more somehow?”  Sam asked.

“I did,” Dean said.  “Before we left this morning I put a sigil on her house.  Nothin major, just a camouflage spell, makes her house even _more_ unnoticeable to any spirits in the area.  But if I do anything to her personally, Rhonda won’t be just a civilian anymore.  She’ll be more protected sure, but she’ll also be more visible.”

“Well maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Sam said.  “How’s protection like that a bad thing?”

“You’re forgettin how it’s done,” Dean said.  “It’s dangerous, Sammy.  You don’t do that to someone unless you have no choice.”

“Why’s it so dangerous?” Sam asked.

“Cause to protect someone like that you have to…mark them,” Dean said.  _“Scar_ them, psychically I mean.  And that means _wounding_ them.  And when you do that to someone…spell them like that…deep enough to scar…you’re exposin them to the spirit world.  And things c’n get bad when that happens, sometimes real fast.  Spirits show up when people are vulnerable like that.  Often the _wrong_ spirit.”

Sam stared at him, silent.

“And even when the spell’s successful, that person’s scarred for life,” Dean continued.  “And that scar, it has to be cared for.  Maintained.  Or it could open up again.  So we’d have to show Rhonda how to do that, how to keep herself spell protected, for the rest of her life.  And that means bringin her into _our_ world.  She’d be one of _us_ at that point, even if she never chose to hunt.  And I don’t want that for her, Sam.  Do you?”

“No,” Sam said after a moment.  “I don’t.”  His voice was sad.  Dean closed his eyes.

“Are _we_ scarred?” Sam asked, after a moment.  “Marked, like that?  Like with psychic _tattoos?”_

“Yeah,” Dean said.  And opened his eyes.  Stared up at the ceiling.

At the marks there on the ceiling, the warding signs put there by other hunters.  Decades ago, some of them.

The marks of old spells, made visible in chalk and paint.

Protecting him and Sammy now.

Tattoos.

“And so we have to keep them maintained,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.  “You don’t look after them, they get brittle.  Fragile.  They c’n open up.  Or distort.  Stretch outa shape.  Turn into _other_ shapes.  And _then_ you’re cooked.”

“So that’s what we’ve been doin,” Sam said.  “All these years.  You, me ‘n’ Dad.  That thing we do with the bowls and the candle, every dark of the moon.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “We’re maintainin the warding spell.”

“I thought we were doin that because of the _hunting,”_ Sam said.  “Not because of _us.”_

“It’s both,” Dean said.  “The ritual’s stronger for us because we’re hunters.  Cause hunting puts the spell under more strain.  Rhonda wouldn’t have to do everythin _we_ do, for example.”

“But we _have_ to do it,” Sam said.  “For the rest of our lives.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Even if we stop huntin,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“That _sucks,”_ Sam said.  Viciously. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I guess it does.  But there’s nothin we c’n do about it now, Sammy.  Now that the spell’s in place, we gotta maintain it.  Just like every other marked person out there who doesn’t want to end up dead at the hand of a spirit.  Or possessed.  Or insane.”

“For life,” Sam repeated.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Like a life _sentence,”_ Sam said.

Dean was quiet.

“How long have we been like this?” Sam asked.  “How long have we been _scarred?”_

“Since before you’d remember,” Dean said.  “Dad did it soon after Mom died.”

“Do _you_ remember?” Sam said. 

“…Yeah,” Dean said.

“Tell me,” Sam said.

Dean was quiet. 

 _“Tell me,”_ Sam said.  “I deserve to know what happened, Dean.”

Dean was quiet.

“Fair’s fair,” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “Okay,” he said.  But he was quiet for another moment.   

The memory like dark water, rising up.

***

Five year old Dean, sitting on a cold concrete floor. 

In the dark basement of this creepy old farmhouse, Dean, Sammy and their dad breaking in there, into a dusty abandoned kitchen.  Their dad going over to a door with a sigil painted on it, the door padlocked shut, their dad opening the padlock with his lockpick, chanting something under his breath, the door open now, rickety wooden stairs leading down into darkness.  And their dad climbing down those stairs, his duffel bag over his shoulder, with Sammy in his arms and Dean following, Dean’s heart thumping in his throat.  And now the three of them in this dark, low ceilinged room, with a smell to it like incense mixed with something horrible, rotten.  Their dad halting, crouching down, handing Sammy to Dean.  “Sit down, son.  And take your brother.”  Dean sitting down on the gross damp floor with the struggling weight of Sammy on his lap.  Sammy wailing, wriggling around, obviously scared out of his mind (like Dean) and he was a big baby now, over a year old.  Dean was having trouble holding onto him.

Their dad.

“Keep him _still,_ Dean, this is important.”

“I’m _tryin,_ Dad,” Dean said.

Their dad looking at Dean exasperated.  And worried too, there was this terrible worried look in his eyes.  Their dad was scared too, Dean could see.  Dean started to cry, silently.

“Dean!” their dad snapped.  “Stop it!  Get a hold of yourself, son.  Be a man.”

“Yes sir,” Dean whispered.  He swallowed his tears.  Took a firmer grip on his wailing brother.   “Shh Sammy, shhh,” Dean whispered.  “S’okay, s’okay.”

Their dad, fussing with some bowls on the floor.  Filled with things Dean didn’t recognize.  Ash, he knew now, from the bones of the restless dead, ritually removed from the graves of the salted and burned.  A thick, creamy smelling oil ( _blessed_ oil, Dean knew now, from Pastor Jim).  And blood, their dad’s blood, mixed with holy water, Dean watching their dad draw blood from his own arm, letting it drip into a bowl he’d filled with water from his silver bottle, their dad also placing into the bowl the dark wooden rosary he always carried around on his belt, and then wincing as he cut himself with his silver knife.  “Dad?” Dean said.  His voice trembling.  “You okay?”  Their dad.  “Yes son, I’m fine.  Doesn’t hurt.”

And now their dad placing the three bowls carefully around Dean and Sammy.  Drawing lines on the floor with white chalk, joining the bowls into the shape of a triangle.  Lighting a tall red candle, longer and thicker than the red candles Dean remembered his mom lighting on their table at Christmas (their dad’s candle a _spell_ candle, Dean knew that now).  And now their dad chanting, in a language unrecognizable to Dean (Latin), his face going dark.

Dean was trembling.  Crying again, in spite of himself.  And Sammy was _shrieking._

Their dad, ignoring this.  He’d stepped over the chalk line, entering the triangle shape containing his two sons.  Squatted down in front of them, the red candle in one hand. 

Still chanting.  And then he held the candle to his head.

 _Dean_ was shrieking now.  “ _Dad!_   What’re you _doin!”_

“Shhh, son, I’m just singein my hair,” their dad said.  And he was pinching his hair where he’d lit it on fire.  Dark ash, staining his fingers.  “Be quiet now, we have to move fast.”  And he was holding the candle to Dean’s head.  Dean felt the sharp heat of the flame, searing.  He closed his eyes, dizzy.  A rich, horrible smell, the smell of burnt hair.  And Dean feeling _sick_ now, and barely keeping his grip on Sammy who’d bucked in Dean’s arms, letting out a _howl._

“Careful son, Jesus!” his dad said sharply.  “Keep still!”  His fingers in Dean’s hair, pinching.  And now holding the candle to Sammy’s head.

“Dad,” Dean whispered.  “No.”   And terrified but not moving a muscle.  Holding onto Sammy like death because if his brother moved _now,_ jerking himself against that hot flame-

A curl of smoke against Sammy’s head.  Their dad pinched it out.  And Sammy back to shrieking, with Dean trying to shush him, helplessly.

But their dad had turned his back on him and Sammy, now crouched in front of the bowl of oil, dipping his ash stained fingers into it.  Chanting in that strange language, urgently now, his voice louder.  Dean watching this, frozen.  And Sammy in his arms, suddenly silent.

A cold feeling at the top of Dean’s head.  And a flutter at the corner of his eye, like shadows shifting.  “Dad,” Dean whispered.  “What-“

But their dad chanting _loud_ now, almost shouting, holding the candle high.  And moving rapidly to the second bowl, careful, Dean noticed, to stay inside the chalk line.  Dipping his fingers into the bowl of bloody water.

And now that cold feeling even more noticeable above Dean’s head, like a window had just opened above him to some freezing other place.  And dark shadows moving in the room, just outside the flickering light cast by the candle.  _Hungry_ shadows, somehow.  “Dad,” Dean whispered.  He was shaking with fear.  “There’s-“  but then he looked down at Sammy’s face, Sammy, lying so still suddenly in Dean’s arms.  And saw his brother staring silently up, Sammy’s wide bright eyes fixed on some point above Dean’s head.  “Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “What-“ and he started to raise his head, to follow the direction of Sammy’s fascinated gaze.  But then his dad’s sharp voice.

 _“Dean!  Don't_ _look up!”_

Dean turned to stare at their dad, who was rising from where he’d been crouched in front of the third bowl containing that lumpy, powdery stuff.  His fingers were coated with it.  He came quickly over to Dean, his eyes stark.  “Don’t look up, Dean!” he said.  “Close your _eyes,_ Jesus!”  Dean’s mouth opened.  But then he closed his eyes.  And suddenly remembering, he put his hand over _Sammy’s_ eyes too, covering his brother’s eyes firmly.  Sammy didn’t respond.  He was motionless under Dean’s hand.  Silent.  Dean noticed this, with fresh fear.  What had Sammy seen?

But now their dad, crouching in front of his sons.  Chanting, again.  Dean felt their dad’s fingers, greasy with ash and oil, drawing some sort of sign on his forehead.  And then their dad’s fingers on his lips, putting that disgusting stuff in Dean’s _mouth._

Dean jerked his head back, retching.  He opened his eyes.  Saw their dad’s face, very close to him.  Saw the grey ash mark on their dad’s forehead, his lips.

“Steady son,” their dad’s voice.  “Stay still.  We’re almost done.”

And now their dad’s fingers on Sammy’s forehead, his little mouth.  Chanting again.  And Sammy wriggling suddenly in Dean’s arms, no longer frighteningly still.  Crying, again.

And suddenly Dean felt a sharp pain, like a lash across his spine.  He jerked against it, folding himself over Sammy’s body, crying out.  And heard at the same time a loud howl from Sammy, Sammy going rigid in his arms, his little body bending back.  And heard also, terrifyingly, a gasp and then a choked sound of pain from their dad.

And then a _cold_ sound.  Like a voice _._   Speaking.  But not like a voice.  A cold, dead sound, speaking like not speaking.  It was terrifying.  Dean’s mouth opened in a silent scream.  He felt the air leaving his body.  And he was conscious of Sammy, suddenly motionless on his lap.  A dead, still weight.  And Dean, silently screaming. 

But then their dad’s voice.  _Shouting,_ desperately, these meaningless nonsense words, shouting over that cold un-voice, the _sound_ of it, unspeakable.

 _Shouting,_ their dad’s voice.  Shouting, shouting.

And suddenly the icy feeling at the top of Dean’s head was gone. 

Vanished, completely.  And the room suddenly still.

That un-voice, gone.

And the room still.  Silent.

Just a dark, dingy basement room now, not somewhere you’d want to _play_ in, but not particularly scary anymore.  Dean stared around himself, blinking.  He was still holding Sammy.  He looked up at their dad.

Their dad had snuffed out the candle.  He was gathering up the three bowls and putting them into a wooden box.  He rubbed out the chalk mark.  Stood and turned to look down at Dean.  “You okay, son?”  And their dad’s voice, normal again.  And his expression, serious but calm.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  He looked down at Sammy in his arms.  Sammy glared back at him, looking mad as hell.  He was still crying, but it was his normal, pissed-off-baby cry now, not a terrified wail.  Dean wrinkled his nose.  Sammy smelled like he needed to be changed.

Their dad had noticed too.  “Let’s get Sammy outa here,” he said.  “You c’n change him in the car and then we’ll be on our way.”  He picked up the wooden box and put it into his duffle bag, along with the big red candle.  Slung the bag over his shoulder.

“Okay,” Dean said.  He couldn’t get out of this disgusting basement fast enough.  He was on his feet, helping Sammy to _his_ feet (Sammy had started walking not too long ago.  He was still pretty shaky but really determined, barrelling around, bumping into chairs and tables, falling on his ass and wailing.  It was cute but exasperating, especially as it was _Dean’s_ job to run around after him and make sure he didn’t die).  But Sammy wasn’t having any of this walking business right now.  He held up his little arms to Dean and howled.  “Dad,” Dean said.  “I can’t carry Sammy up those stairs.  He’s too heavy for me.  I might drop him.” 

“Sure son, no problem,” their dad said.  He bent and picked Sammy up, lifting him easily.  “Let’s go,” he said to Dean.  “You first.”

After a backwards glance at Sammy, Dean turned and ran up the rickety stairs, his dad following with Sammy in his arms.

Now the three of them back in the dusty kitchen, dim and gloomy but _miles_ more cheerful than that basement.  Dean breathed a sigh of relief.  “Where we goin now?” he asked.  Their dad had put Sammy down.  Sammy turned immediately to Dean, his arms outstretched. 

“See a guy,” their dad said.  “You don’t know him yet but he knows all about you ‘n’ your brother.  He’s lookin forward to meetin you boys.”

“What’s his name?” Dean asked.  He was holding onto Sammy’s hands, letting Sammy clutch at him for balance.

“Bobby Singer,” their dad said.   “I’ve been wantin to get together with him but we needed to come here first.  Take care of somethin.”

“Where _are_ we?” Dean asked.  He was glancing around.  This place didn’t look like much.  Worse than that last motel room even, the one with the carpet that smelled like pee.  And this place was clearly abandoned.  A house but not for living in.

“Safehouse,” their dad said.  “Used to be a locus point, but hunters took it back, years ago.  Took it back and sealed it off.”

“A what?” Dean asked.  He was confused.

Their dad smiled down at him.  “Never mind,” he said.  “I’ll explain it to you later.  Place may not look like much, but it’s about the safest spot in the country to do a ritual like this, other than one of the named churches.  And even then, that was a pretty close call.”  And he wasn’t smiling now.

Dean stared at him solemnly.  “Are we okay, Dad?” he asked.  “Are we gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” their dad said.  “We’ll be okay, son.  We’re warded now.  Protected, with the strongest spell out there.  I made sure of that.  Checked it, with Bobby.”

“What’s Bobby do?” Dean asked.  If _Bobby_ was the one responsible for what they’d just gone through in that basement _,_ Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to meet him.

“Bobby knows about this kind of stuff,” their dad said absently.  He was at the back door, the one they’d used to enter the house.  Opened it, peered out.  “You boys go on,” he said after a moment.  “I have to seal the place up again.  Just stay on the steps and wait for me.”

Dean walked out obediently, holding Sammy’s hand.  They stood on the back steps of the old farmhouse looking out over scraggly fields, dark woods in the distance.  Squinting in the bright sunlight.  It was a sunny day.  A bit chilly and windy, for summer, but sunny.

But then Dean realized something.

Things looked different. 

 _Different_ from before, when him and their dad and Sammy had first entered the house. 

Didn’t they?

Dean gazed carefully around him.  Blue sky, white clouds, bright sunlight on fields and forest.  A sparkle of sunlight on the shiny Impala, parked a short distance away.

Still the same scenery.  But something was different.

What was different?  Dean couldn’t pinpoint it.

But then he realized. 

The light.  The sunlight.

It was _harder,_ somehow.  Harder, sharper.  And _colder._   Wasn’t it?

Dean blinked.  Looked up. 

That bright sun.  It had been so cheerful before, a cheerful summer sun.  But now it looked _cold._   Bright but cold, shining coldly down on Dean and Sammy.  A winter sun, now.  Dean stared up at it.  The sun glittered down on him against a hard blue sky, glinting like metal.  Dean blinked again.  He was right.  Wasn’t he?  The sun looked _different._   And the sky too.

The sky now a hard, flat blue, like paint.

Dean blinked again.  Then looked around carefully.   Gazed at the yellow flowers dotting the fields. 

And _they_ were different too.  Those flowers ( _dandelions,_ his dad called them), they’d been so _bright_ before.  Hadn’t they?  Like little yellow suns turned up to the blue summer sky.  They were still yellow, but not the same.  Now they were sort of a… _bitter_ yellow. 

Weren’t they?  Dean wasn’t mistaken about this.  Was he?

But maybe he was.  Maybe he was remembering this all wrong.  I mean, yellow was yellow.  Right?  Maybe yellow had always looked like this, not warm at all.  Maybe _light_ had always looked like this, sort of _(stark)_ cold-like _._   Dean closed his eyes, deliberately.  Opened them.  Would things be back to normal?

But then he noticed the _shadows,_ so clear and hard edged, so _dark,_ suddenly.  But _clear,_ Dean could see right _into_ them, like looking into deep, clear water.  He stared at the Impala, gleaming black like it had been dipped in oil, but with every colour of the rainbow sparkling in the depths of its black paint.  Dean stared at this, tears coming to his eyes suddenly.  Had their car ever looked so beautiful? 

And now dragging his eyes away from the Impala, gazing towards the brooding forest and Dean realized he could see _into_ it now, even though it was some distance away.  He stared, fascinated, at the green-black outlines of the trees, at the purple-black shadows under them.

Those shadows so…so _rich_ suddenly.  So soft and inviting looking.  And deep.  Clear.  And _detailed_ , every dark line and shade of that shadowy forest distinct _._

It was kind of awesome actually, being able to see into the dark forest like that.

So.  This new light.  This new _dark._   It _was_ new.  Wasn’t it? 

What was going on?

But maybe Dean was mistaken.  Maybe things had always looked like this.  It’s just that Dean was _noticing_ it now, after being in that horrible basement getting scared out of his mind. 

Dean looked down at Sammy.  And saw his brother staring up at the sky, Sammy’s eyes suddenly reflecting its colour, a weird grey-blue light glinting in them, overlaying their normal greeny-yellow-brown.

“Sammy?” Dean said.  Sammy’s eyes turned to him.  “You okay?” Dean asked. 

Sammy was staring wonderingly up at Dean’s face.  “Dean?” he said.  Dean stared back, suddenly cold.  Sammy –he was gazing at Dean like he’d never seen him before.  But then Sammy raised his arms, the way he always did when he wanted to be picked up.  Dean lifted him, with some difficulty.  Sammy put his arms around Dean’s neck, stared up into Dean’s face again.  Dean jounced him.  “You’re _heavy_ Sammy,” he said, panting.  “One heavy baby.”

Sammy looked at him.  Then grinned, a smooth line of pearly baby teeth.  “Heavy,” he said.  “Baby.”

Dean smiled.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Heavy.  I gotta put you down now.  Okay?”  And he lowered Sammy, who found his feet without any trouble.  Started tottering towards the stairs.  Dean grabbed Sammy’s hand before this became a disaster.  “You wanna walk?” he asked Sammy.  “You wanna walk to the car?”  Sammy was looking at their car.  Then turned to his brother.  “Dean,” he said.  He turned back towards the Impala and pointed to it.  “Dark,” he said cheerfully.  But then,

“Pretty,” Sammy said.

Dean stared at the Impala, its deep, gleaming, glossy black, standing out so clearly in the harsh sunlight, as if outlined in black marker.   He felt another chill.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That’s one pretty car, Sammy.  You’re right.”

Sammy smiled at him.  But now he was looking up, gazing at the sky again, the sun lighting up the blue sky, the clouds.  Sammy, squinting against the light.  “Cold,” he said.

Cold.

 _Dean_ was cold.  Shivering.  “Yeah Sammy,” he said after a moment.  “It _is_ kinda cold out, isn’t it?  For summer.  But it’ll warm up, don’t worry.”

Sammy looked at him.  Those wide, clear eyes, glinting blue-gray under tiny angled brows.  Gazing up at Dean thoughtfully.

“No,” Sammy said.   

The door opened behind them.

“Okay Dean.”  Their dad was standing on the steps, his bag slung over his shoulder.  “Let’s go.”

“Dad,” Dean said.  “Do things look different to you?”

“Different how?” his dad replied casually.  And his eyes, scanning the horizon like they always did.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  “Different.  Like, um, _colder_ maybe?”

His dad glanced at him, his eyes sharp.  “No,” he said after a moment.  “Can’t say things look any different to me.  Do they look different to _you?”_

Dean swallowed.  His dad’s eyes on him, intent.  “I dunno…” he said.  “No, I…guess not.  I just kinda wondered, that’s all.”

His dad’s gaze relaxed.  “You were just down in a near pitch black room,” he said.  “People’s eyes need time to adjust to light after that.  So things might look a little different at first.  Don’t worry.  It’s normal.”

“Okay,” Dean said quietly. 

His dad had bent down over Sammy.  “Hey big fella,” he said.  _“_ Ready to walk with me?”  He held out one finger, smiling.  After a moment Sammy reached up and took it.  Their dad turned back to Dean, his eyes warm now.  Just warm, just a dad’s eyes. 

“Let’s get Sammy changed,” their dad said.  “Then we’ll grab a bite before drivin on to Bobby’s.  Noticed a burger joint couple miles back.  Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He was holding Sammy’s other hand now.  Then he and his dad climbed carefully down the stairs and walked towards the Impala, Sammy toddling between them.

***

“Huh,” Sam said.

He was lying on his back, flopped down on the bed.  Dean lay beside him.  They were still holding hands.  

Dean hadn’t been looking at Sam during the story.  His eyes had been on the ceiling, the old marks there.  Now he glanced at his brother, briefly.

“So do colours really look different?” Sam asked him.  “Once you get warded?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “They do.  I found that out later, from Bobby.  The spell alters your perception of light and dark.  That’s why you ‘n’ I never have a problem with the dark.  We see better in it than most people.”

Sam laughed briefly.  “Good spell for a hunter,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“And so we have to keep goin with it?” Sam asked.  “Once we get started?”

“Uh huh,” Dean answered.

“Otherwise the scars will open,” Sam said.

Dean didn’t reply.

“Or maybe that’s a myth,” Sam said.  “Maybe nothin will happen at all.  You ever met a hunter who’s tried it?”

Dean went cold.  “No!” he said.  “I never have.  No hunter would ever risk somethin like that.  That’s just askin for trouble Sammy, _serious_ trouble.  Don’t you be experimentin with that.  You gotta promise me.”

“But I’ve never seen colours in their natural state,” Sam said.  “Never seen natural _sunlight._   Right?  Not since I c’n _remember.”_

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Dean said quietly. 

“It’s not _fair,”_ Sam said.

“No,” Dean said.  “It isn’t, I agree.  But listen Sammy, you gotta accept that the warding is necessary.  You mess with spirits without it – you’re not gonna stay sane for long.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

“Because if you open yourself to the supernatural,” Dean said, “It’ll take you over.  The line’s gonna get so blurred for you, you won’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

Sam looked at him.  He didn’t say anything.

“Eventually you won’t be able to shut it off,” Dean continued.  “You won’t be able to trust your five senses anymore…and just think,” he said, “about tryin to live your life like that.  And there _are_ people like that, Sammy.  We call them crazy.  Schizo.”

“Huh,” Sam said again.  He was quiet.  Then said, “So I guess the warding’s why I’ve never seen spirits.  Not that I c’n remember, anyways.  Right?  I always wondered why I never saw supernatural stuff, bein _Dad’s_ kid ‘n’ all…sometimes I’d think him ‘n’ Bobby ‘n’ all the rest of you were just _delusional_ and the whole thing was some paranoid commando fantasy.  Hunters playin D ‘n’ D.”

“…Yeah,” Dean said.  “I know you did.  But I think you _did_ see somethin.  When you were little.  In that basement that first time Dad spelled us…and it’s always bothered me that I wasn’t on the ball enough to prevent that.”

“You mean…like when you were _five?”_ Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“S’okay, Dean,” Sam said.  “I think you get a pass on that.”

Dean smiled.

“But there’s somethin I don’t understand,” Sam continued.  _“You_ saw a spirit.  On that hunt in New Hampshire.  And you’re warded too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “But I wasn’t warded at that point.  I’d had it stripped off me, remember?  By that priestess Dad hooked up with.  Manon.  She tranced me.  Opened me up.   To see if I could attract that spirit who was killin those kids.”

“Bait,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“And you _did_ attract it,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “But not until _you_ showed up.  Which proves my point how risky it is for us without the warding spell, Sammy.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said absently.  “So when that spirit came to you,” he said, “it wasn’t possessin something else?  Like a real wildcat?”

“No,” Dean said.  “It came in its spirit form.  It only looked like a wildcat because it’d chosen that as a…like… _symbol_ of itself.  To make itself recognizable to me, so I could communicate with it.”

“And fight it,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Why did it agree to fight you?” Sam asked.

“It needed my death,” Dean said.  “To complete the ritual that would bring its master through the veil.  It’d accepted me as the fourth sacrifice, remember?  In place of that other boy.  And it knew that to kill me, it would have to fight me.”

“So when you fought it…” Sam said, “What were you fightin, exactly?  How do you fight a _spirit?”_

Dean smiled.  “It looked like I was fightin air,” he said.  “To Dad ‘n the others that is.  But to _me_ it was so real it was like it had real claws and teeth.  And if it had beaten me…I’d’ve been just as dead.”

“So no one else could see it,” Sam said.  “Only you.”

“That’s right” Dean said. 

“So I guess no one else could _help,_ either,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said.  “The spirit just revealed itself to me.  See, spirits have to _agree_ to fight you, they don’t show up unless they want to.  You have to do somethin to attract them.  Get them interested.”

“Like you did,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean replied.

“So Dad ’n’ the others…all they could do was just stand there, watchin?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Boy, Dad must’ve been shittin himself,” Sam said.

“He was,” Dean said.  “He-“ Dean paused.   Remembering.

_(His dad standing frozen, barely visible in that forest clearing black under the moonless sky, staring helplessly at his son whom he’d brought to this place, his son now fighting for his life, fighting alone under his father’s powerless eyes.  And Dean seeing this, realizing that if he died here this was the last thing he would see, his father standing there helplessly, frozen in a stance of fear, frustration and shame…)_

Dean sat up suddenly.

“Dean?”  Sam’s startled voice.  He sat up too.  Put a hand on Dean’s back.  “What is it?”

Dean didn’t answer.  He looked down at his lap.  Sat silently, willing that memory to leave him.

But then the sight of Sam’s hand, taking his hand again.  Holding it, gently.

“Hey,” Sam said.  “You okay?” 

Dean took a breath.  “Yeah,” he said eventually.   “So anyway…I killed that fuckin thing.  See, by revealin itself to me…comin _to_ me, to fight…that spirit made itself vulnerable too.  It could kill _me,_ but I could also kill _it._   And I did.”

“So what happened after?” Sam asked.

“Dad warded me again,” Dean said.  “Sealed me up.   Then I came back to you.”  He was quiet.

“…So that was it?” Sam asked.  

“Pretty much,” Dean said.

“So seein that spirit…it _didn’t_ make you go crazy,” Sam said.  Then he grinned.  “Or at least, not too much.”

Dean snorted.  “Fuck off,” he said.

Sam laughed.  “But that’s _my_ point,” he said.  “ _You_ saw a spirit without goin schizo.  So maybe we could try that on _me,_ sometime.  Lift the warding spell.  It’d be cool to see a spirit.  As well as real colours,” he added.

Dean glanced at him.  Sam, looking all enthusiastic.

“No,” he said.  “Forget it, Sammy.”

Sam scowled.  “Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s not gonna happen,” Dean said.  “For one thing, it’s not just liftin the warding spell.  You can’t see spirits unless you’re tranced into like…their zone.  Their _plane._   Like Manon tranced me.”

“So c’n you do that?” Sam asked.  “Do you know how put someone into a trance?”

“No,” Dean said.  “I never learned.”

“Do you know anyone who can?” Sam asked. 

“Bobby,” Dean said, reluctantly.  “And Dad.  He got Manon to show him, eventually.  He’d asked Bobby to show him but Bobby wouldn’t, he was too pissed.  About what Manon and Dad had done to me on that hunt.  He said it was uncalled for.  Said it was-” Dean paused.

 _(“That was fuckin_ psychic rape, _John, ‘n’ to you that’s just_ business? _Doin that to your own_ kid _?”)_

“…he said it was unnecessary,” Dean said.  “Said there were other options.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  “So is _that_ why Dad ‘n’ Bobby haven’t talked much, last couple of years?”

“Partly,” Dean said.  “Bobby doesn’t always see eye to eye with Dad, you may’ve noticed.”

“Not just _Bobby,”_ Sam muttered.  “Try every hunter out there. _”_

Dean grinned.  “Yeah.  But Dad’s still the _best_ hunter out there ‘n’ don’t you forget it.  Bein ruthless is part of the job.”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “Well maybe I could ask Bobby to show me.  Or Dad.  I’d kinda like to see what I’ve lived my whole life in motel rooms for, for once.”

“It’s not somethin you do for fun,” Dean said.   “They’re not gonna trance you in just cause you want to _see._ ”

“Well what’s the harm in it?” Sam asked.  “All I’m doin is _lookin_.”

“Lookin is still dangerous,” Dean said.  “The spirit world –it’s compellin, Sammy.  Takes you over, like I said.  Some hunters –they’ve tranced themselves in and never come out.  They just stay in the trance while their bodies waste away.  And remember, when you look at the spirits, they’re gonna look _back.”_

“But if I’m careful…” Sam began, “I don’t see why I can’t-“

 _“ –No!”_ Dean snapped.  “Jesus Sammy, what’s _with_ you!  You’re never satisfied with anythin.  You just got somethin major out of me, with this Rhonda business, and _now_ you’re askin for _more?_ Forget it!”

Sam was quiet.  Dean looked over at him.  Sam, staring silently out in front of him with that familiar, stubborn look on his face.

Dean sighed.  “Sammy,” he said in a softer tone.  “I don’t want you takin risks like that.  Okay?”

 _“You_ did it,” Sam said.

“I wish I hadn’t had to,” Dean said.

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Because it exposed you,” Dean said.  “The supernatural found out about us, remember?”

“But that’s because I showed up _while_ you were tranced,” Sam said.  “Not _because_ you were tranced.   If it’s just _me_ goin in there, why would they care?”

“They’d care,” Dean said.

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Because the supernatural _knows_ about us Sammy,” Dean said.  “That spirit I killed…it _said_ so, remember?  They _know_ you ‘n’ I broke a taboo.  Crossed the border.  Trespassed into their territory.  ‘N’ there’s a cost to that.  ‘N’ if we give them any reason to show up, they _will._ ”  He paused.  “They’ll show up to collect.”

“Collect what?” Sam asked.

“The redress,” Dean said.

“The _what?”_ Sam asked.

Dean sighed.  “It’s called redress,” he said.  “The price we pay, for breakin the agreement.  That the two worlds stay separate, the natural and supernatural.  Bobby explained it to me, same summer I killed that spirit.  After we went back to his place.”

“I don’t remember this, was I there?” Sam asked.

“No,” Dean said.  “You were upstairs in our room.  Readin.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  “So tell me about it.  ‘N’ why were you ‘n’ Bobby talkin about it?”

“Cause that spirit said somethin to me,” Dean said.  “The night of the hunt.  Right after I slit its throat.  Right while it was dyin.”

“What did it say?” Sam asked.

“It said-“ Dean began.  He paused again.

_(Dean crouched over the large tawny body, the werecat sprawled underneath him, graceless suddenly, jerking as dark blood, black as tar, pumped from the gash in its throat.  Its eyes, pupils dilated into black pools, staring at him.  That sardonic voice in Dean’s mind._

_Well, you’ve won, hero.  Saved your little corner of reality, for the time being at least.  But don’t celebrate yet.  Remember, we have your scent now.  Yours and your brother’s._

_“What?” Dean asked it.  “What do you mean?”_

_You’ve trespassed, hero.  You and that sweet brother of yours, that sweet brotherly love.  You’ve trespassed on the territory of the gods.  And there’s a tax on those who enter territory not their own.  It’s called redress.  And you will pay it.  Sooner or later.  You_ and _Sam._

 _“What do you_ mean? _” Dean said.  He was frightened suddenly, more frightened than when he’d been fighting for his life.  “What are you_ talkin _about?”_

_Laughter.  You will understand.  Eventually.  Both you and Sam will understand.  Goodbye, Dean._

_“No!”  Dean hands were on the thing’s throat, he was trying to hold the wound closed, the black blood gushing over his fingers.  “You’re not dyin on me without explainin!  What do you MEAN?”_

_Laughter.  Ask Bobby Singer.  Not your father, you don’t want John wondering why you’re curious.  Goodbye, beautiful boy._

_“-No!”  Dean shouting.  But the spirit’s eyes were blank, still staring at Dean but now unseeing.  It was dead.  And Dean kneeling over it, shaking.  Until he felt his dad’s hand on his shoulder.)_

“-It said we’d trespassed on the territory of the gods,” Dean said softly.  He shivered.  Sam’s hand tightened over his.  _“What?”_ he asked.  “What did you just say?”

Dean blinked.  “It said…I’d understand about redress,” he replied after a moment.  “That _both_ you ‘n’ I would, eventually.  It said to ask Bobby to explain it to me, not Dad.  So I did.  When neither you or Dad were around.”

“So what did Bobby say?” Sam asked.

“Bobby said redress was the supernatural’s version of huntin,” Dean said.  “When they hunt down rogue humans who trespass into their territory.  Just like _we_ hunt rogue spirits down when they trespass on ours.”

“How do spirits do that?” Sam asked.

“Like when they possess people,” Dean said.  “Or haunt stuff -places, objects, that kind of thing.  Or if they come into our world at the _cellular_ level ‘n’ start alterin genes.  Creatin the monster races.”

 _“Wow,”_ Sam said.  “Seriously?  Who told you _that?”_

“Pastor Jim,” Dean said.  “When he was explainin how werewolves ‘n’ vampires started.”

 _“Wow,”_ Sam said again.  “Cellular possession.  Fuck, I’m sorry I missed _that_ conversation _._   Where was I?”

“Off somewhere,” Dean said.  “Readin.”

“Oh,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.   “So anyway, just like hunters take rogue spirits down if they start messin around in our world, the supernatural takes _us_ down if _we_ go rogue ‘n’ start messin around in theirs.”

“How’d they do that?” Sam asked. 

“By distortin our perceptions,” Dean said.  “How we see things.  How we see other people.  They distort our _awareness._   Understand?  Spirits go after you, they’ll put themselves between you ‘n’ reality.  Until they _are_ your reality.  They make it so that you can’t count on _anythin_ bein what it seems.  Make it so you won’t be able to trust anythin anymore _.”_

“And then you’re nuts,” Sam said.  “Paranoid.  Certifiably insane.”

“Right,” Dean said.  “Pretty much.”

“Wow,” Sam said again. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s _their_ hunt.  And they’ll do that.  You trespass onto their turf…they’ll _destroy_ you.  Just like we hunt down and kill the spirits who do that to us.  So _again_ my point, Sam.  Stay warded.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  But then asked, “But why would they care, anyway?  What’s so terrible about us goin over there?”

“Okay, so why do _we_ care, if a spirit possesses a human body?” Dean said.  “Why do _we_ care if we have to avoid a place cause it’s haunted…why do _we_ care if werewolves ‘n’ vampires live among us…preyin in secret on the weak ‘n’ the clueless…or at some points in history actually takin over a place, with people hidin after dark behind garlic…afraid to go out of their own homes…”

“Um…cause that’s no fuckin good?” Sam said.  Rather sarcastically.

“Right,” Dean said.  “That’s no fuckin good.  This is _our_ world _._    _We’re_ the top dogs here ‘n’ that’s fuckin _that._   So maybe spirits feel the same way.  You think _they_ want _us_ showin up in their zone whenever we feel like it…gawkin…tramplin around…pesterin them with incantations…stealin magic and manipulatin it for gain like witches do…trappin unwary spirits in little boxes ‘n’ turnin them into slaves like genies do…or thinkin we c’n act like _them_ …takin the license of gods…crowdin up against the _real_ gods ‘n’ turnin their neighbourhood into some kind of muggle suburb…trust me Sammy, if you were a spirit, you’d take action if you saw that kind of thing happenin.  And they _do._   They police us, just like we police them.”

“They push back too,” Sam said thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah,” Dean said.  “They push back.  Just like we do, if we see them oversteppin.  And they’re within their rights to do that, under the agreement.   And I understand that, you know.  I get it.  No one wants a war.”

“Were there wars, before?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “There were times when humans and spirits had a lot more to do with each other and we were constantly gettin in each other’s way.   Fightin.  ‘N’ sometimes mixin in, formin alliances…factions…’n’ that could get real messy.  Like in the Trojan Wars, where the Greek gods took opposite sides.”  Sam raised his eyebrows.  Dean shrugged.  “Look at the ancient myths from _anywhere_ in the world…you’ll get the picture,” he said.  “There’s lots of examples.  Battles.  Wars.  Sometimes _apocalyptic_ wars.  Think Atlantis.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  He was smiling slightly.  “That was a real thing?  Honestly Dean, that’s sounds kinda funny, coming out of _your_ mouth.”

Dean didn’t smile back.  “Do I look like a fuckin New Age flake to you?” he said.  “Ask Bobby, smart-ass.”

Sam looked serious now.  “Sorry,” he said.  He was quiet.  Then said, “So from what you’re sayin, sounds like us ‘n’ the supernatural…we’re just like…co-existing right now…in this kind of uneasy peace.  Watchin each other to make sure neither side steps out of line…and hunters on both sides are there to see things stay that way.”

“Yup,” Dean said.  “Hunters are the border guard.  And we’re the ones who get it in the neck, if we’re not clean.  Cause we have to be the example.  We’re there to _uphold_ the agreement, see?  Maintain it.  _We_ break it, we _seriously_ pay.”

“We’re here to maintain the balance of power,” Sam said.  “For everyone.  Every _thing.”_

“Yup,” Dean said. 

“Because we all serve the balance,” Sam said.  He smiled.

Dean looked at him.

“I think I’m startin to get that,” Sam said.  “Like that spirit said I would.  Remember, you told me.”

“Yeah,” Dean said after a moment.  “I remember.”

“You disrespect the balance…you pay,” Sam said.

Dean was quiet.

“Redress,” Sam said.  And smiling.

“Redress,” Dean repeated.  He looked down at his and Sam’s joined hands.  Squeezed Sam’s hand.  “You don’t want to be payin that Sammy.  And you _would_ , if the spirits were able to see into you, trust me on that.  Don’t think you c’n just trance yourself ‘n’ go traipsin into their territory on some kind of looksee.  They’ll be all over you, you’ll be like catnip to them.  As soon as you’re unwarded they’ll catch your scent.  Just like that dyin spirit said to me.  They’ll know you broke a taboo.  And then they’ll go after you.  Look for ways to get at you.  Make an example of you.  _Use_ you.  Maybe in ways you don’t expect.  And other people could get hurt.  Innocent people.  Civilians.  Like Rhonda.”

Sam was quiet. 

“There’s a cost to breakin the agreement,” Dean said.  “And you don’t want to be payin it.  Trust me on this one Sammy, please.”  He was holding Sam’s hand hard now.

“We’ve paid it already,” Sam said.

Dean looked at him.

“We’ve paid that cost already,” Sam said.  His voice was calm.  “Both you ‘n’ me.  We’ve paid, Dean.  And we’re still payin.  Hiding behind a warding spell won’t make any difference to that.”  

Then he said, smiling, “You trespass on the territory of the gods…you pay.” 

Dean stared at him.  Sam looked different for a moment.   Like someone else.  Not his little brother. 

Dean took a breath.  Then spoke, carefully.  “Sammy,” he said.  “You’re missin the point.”

“No I’m not,” Sam said.  “I understand your point.  You’ve explained it real well, Dean.  Redress.  I get it.  You ‘n’ I…we’re not supposed to be together, ‘n’ it’s not just Children’s Services or Dad or anyone else who’d have a problem with that.  It’s bigger than that.  It’s like…we’re offendin _reality.”_

“Well…yeah,” Dean said.  “That’s what breakin a taboo is.”

“So does that bother you?” Sam asked after a moment.

“I guess it does,” Dean said.  “Sometimes.”  He felt tired suddenly.  Sat slumped on the bed.  Looked down again, at his and Sam’s joined hands.

“I’m sorry Dean,” Sam said quietly.

“No,” Dean said.  “I don’t want you to be sorry.  Sammy.  I just want you to be _careful._   Please.  Listen to me.”

Sam sighed.  “Fine.  I’ll keep the warding spell goin.  I won’t try to lift it.  And I won’t try to go on any trance tours of spirit land.”

Dean took a breath.  “Thank you,” he said.  “For _not_ bein an idiot.”

Sam snorted.  “You sound like me,” he said.  “Talkin to you.”

“Fuck off,” Dean said.

Sam grinned.  “So touchy,” he said.  But then he looked serious again.  “ _Avoidin_ redress…there’s a cost to that too.  Maintainin the balance…we pay for that too.  Ever thought about _that,_ Dean?”

Dean groaned.  He flopped back on the bed.  “Enough,” he said.  “You’re exhaustin me, Sammy.”

“Sorry,” Sam said.   He flopped back too.  Patted Dean’s thigh, sympathetically.  “I know thinking is hard for you.”

“Jesus,” Dean said.  “Fuck _off.”_

Sam laughed.  “Another fine burn,” he said.  “Courtesy of Sam Winchester.”

“Bitch,” Dean said.

Sam laughed again.  Then asked, “So was Bobby curious when you asked him about redress?  Did he ask if you’d been doin somethin you shouldn’t?”

“No,” Dean said.  “I told him that spirit had implied the supernatural would come after me…I didn’t say anythin about _you_ of course _…_ and that it had mentioned redress.  And Bobby said that bein subject to redress is a common concern for a hunter.  Remember, we walk close to the line.  Spirits keep an eye on hunters –we have more accountability to the agreement than a regular civilian would.  Bobby said I needed to keep my nose clean and my warding strong.  And not give the supernatural any reason to move on me.  Cause I’d be major prize to them after killing one of their own.  They’d _love_ to exercise redress on me.  Bobby was pretty worried about me, actually, my safety in general that is, not that I was _doin_ anythin.  He went ‘n’ yelled at Dad, after that.”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “I can’t believe _Dad_ wasn’t worried about you.”

“He was worried,” Dean said.  “Be fair, Sammy.   He just made the hard decision, that’s all.”

Sam snorted.  “Uh huh,” he said.   Lay quietly beside Dean.  “You heard from him?” Sam asked eventually.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, after a moment.  “Dad’s comin for us at the end of June.  Once you’re done school.  But he doesn’t want to drive all the way back to Wisconsin.  Said we should meet him at Bobby’s, sometime after the summer solstice.”

“Oh,” Sam said.  “When did you talk to him?  You never said.”

“Few days ago,” Dean said.  “With all this other stuff goin on, it slipped my mind, tellin you.”

“Right,” Sam said.  “You mean, you were too mad at me to say anythin.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said.  “Guess you could say that.  But anyway, so Dad _did_ call me, finally.  No apologies for droppin out of sight of course.  But he told me he was comin to get us right after your sixteenth birthday.  To start you huntin, for real.  I told him no.  Reminded him I’d committed to havin you finish out the school year, here.”

“Bet he was real happy about _that,”_ Sam said.

Dean laughed.  “Nope,” he said.  “But at least he called.  And he sounded okay.  Well you know, not _okay,_ but like his usual self.”

“You mean okay,” Sam said.  “Just miserable.”

Dean laughed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Like that.”

“Guess _you_ were happy though,” Sam said.  “To hear from him.”

Dean was quiet.  Remembering the feeling that had pierced his body at the sound of their dad’s voice.  Happiness.  Relief.  Anger.  Regret.  Anticipation (he missed his dad in spite of everything).  But also fear.  For Sam, soon to be sixteen.  And hunting.  For real.

 “Yeah,” Dean said finally.  “I was happy.”

“But we’ve got a bit more time without him,” Sam said.  “Till the end of June.  Wow Dean, thanks.  That’s awesome.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean said. 

Sam turned to him.  Kissed Dean’s cheek.  “Thanks for not pullin me out of here,” he whispered.  “I know you must’ve considered it.”

Dean smiled ruefully.  “Not really, Sammy, to be honest.  I promised you the school year here, remember?  And also…I wanted you talkin to me for the rest of my life.”  Sam laughed.  Nuzzled him.  “But you stood up for me,” he murmured.  “Dean.  I won’t forget that.”

Dean was quiet.

Sam, saying that to him.  In this warm, confiding, _confident_ tone, little brother to big brother.  Sam saying these words to him, able to say them, dropping these precious words into their conversation without irony, these pleased, confident words now resident beneath their conversation, taking their place in the vast, ancient, shadowy space that underlay all conversations between him and Sam.  That dark archive of shared memory, eternally echoing. 

Stretching back and back.  But illuminated periodically, with new words.

_You stood up for me._

_(I won’t forget that)_

“Sure,” Dean said, eventually.  “Okay.  But you just remember this conversation _too,_ Sammy.  Okay?  I’m lettin you have this thing with Rhonda.  You c’n play at bein a civilian for now, since you seem to want that so bad.  But don’t forget who you are.  Don’t forget who _we_ are.  Cause if you do, there could be major consequences.  And not just for us, for Rhonda too.  You don’t want that.”

“No,” Sam said.  “I don’t.  I get it.  I’ll be careful.”

Dean felt relief easing into him.  He’d been tense, he realized.  Lying on the bed, speaking calmly.  Holding Sam’s hand.  But tense.  Because if Sam _didn’t_ get it…Dean didn’t know where they’d go from there.  Where they _could_ go.

“Thanks Sammy,” he said.  “I appreciate that.”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “But I want you to have _your_ time as a civilian _too,_ Dean.  I want _you_ to relax.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “I’ll try.”

Sam snorted softly.  But then he turned onto his side.  And pressed himself into Dean, his lithe, warm, silky self.   Threw a leg over him.  Slipped a hand under Dean’s shirt.  “You c’n do more than that,” Sam whispered.  “You _can_ relax.  For me.  Cause you want to make me happy, right?”  And now rubbing Dean’s stomach, his chest, a thumb brushing over one of Dean’s nipples.  And leaning forward, nuzzling those smooth lips into Dean’s throat.  “You want to make me happy,” he whispered.

Dean closed his eyes.  He felt himself getting hard.  _Sam,_ Jesus, always doing this to him.  Playing him like an instrument.  Sam was so _good_ at it.  And he knew it.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I want that.  Brat.”

Sam laughed again.  But then his lips were on Dean’s mouth and he was kissing him, softly, beautifully, the way Sam knew how to do it, those kisses that only he could give, Dean’s Sammy Sammy Sammy.

“I love you Dean,” Sam whispered.  “And thank you, for doin this for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean whispered back.  And now Sam’s hands on him, undoing his jeans, taking off his jeans, Sam baring Dean’s cock to his lips his mouth, Sam suddenly sucking Dean’s cock back _hard_ into his mouth with Dean moaning, arching up and Sam sucking, suckling at him and Dean coming now, coming into his brother’s mouth, Dean shuddering helplessly with Sammy making him come the way he knew how to do it, Sam his brother, _Sammy,_ doing that to him, Dean’s person, Dean’s own person, Dean’s _Sammy,_ for as far back as Dean could remember.

“I love you,” Dean whispered.  Sam’s head was on his belly now, Sam resting his head there quietly.  “Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “I love you.” 

“I know,” Sam whispered back.  “That’s why I’m here.”

Dean had put his fingers into Sam’s silky hair.  Stroking it.   His eyes were closed.

“I know you love me,” Sam whispered.   It sounded like he was smiling.  And now the brush of his lips on Dean’s skin.  And now Sam pulling Dean’s shorts back up, pulling his jeans back up, Sam dressing his brother, tenderly, and Dean smiling at this.  And now Sam’s arms around him, hugging him close, Sam pulling Dean against his own body, cozying himself up against Dean’s side.

Dean smiling.  He put his own arms around his brother.  Sam, his warm, silky brother, the sweet weight of Sam against him.  Sam, so lazy and relaxed.  Snuggling into him.  Like Dean’s body was home.

So yeah. 

Lying there beside his brother, Dean realized that he _could._   Do this.  In spite of (everything).But he could, still.   And he would (because Sam wanted it)… 

Relax. 

Into the _feel_ of this. 

Into the sensation of Sam beside him, so cozy and content.

Content finally, in their life.  In spite of everything.

_I’m here._

***

So one of the things that Dean truly, honestly enjoyed about this new situation was running with Rhonda.

He’d never liked running, particularly.  Although he did it often (like, practically every day, for most of his life).

His dad had insisted.

That both him and Sammy know how to run.  Fast.  And far.

Because sometimes, as a hunter, you just had to.  To save your life.  Or someone else’s life.  Or to _take_ a life (in order to save a life).

So that had been a strict expectation.  That both Dean and Sammy run, and god help them if they missed their weekly quota of miles.  Their asses would pay (and did, painfully) because their dad seemed to have a sixth sense about any slacking.  And then of course, that became Dean’s responsibility, to get those miles out of Sam.  And punish him, if Sam fell short.

So anyway…both of him and Sam _ran,_ okay?  But not that happily.

But Rhonda…she _liked_ running.  And she liked running with Dean.  And she made a point of running with him _enjoyably,_ loping gracefully along at his side, the two of them occasionally speaking but mostly just running in silence.

Running along lonely country roads, Rhonda’s old route, the one she’d been scared away from after nearly being assaulted by those assholes in the pickup truck.

But now running it again with Dean at her side.  Her lethal new boyfriend, trained to violence, intimidated by no one.  So Rhonda, confident in Dean’s company, running again without fear.

Running with him joyfully, not grudgingly.  Happily.  _Appreciatively._

It was nice.

They’d taken to running in the mornings before work.  Dean would drive in, drop Sam at school and head over to Rhonda’s.  Or if Jeannie was working overnight, Sam and him would stay over, with Sam hauling himself out of Rhonda’s bed first thing in the morning, grumbling (and waking Dean and Rhonda who’d grumble back at him) and heading off to school while Dean and Rhonda went back to sleep (or just stayed in bed _after_ Sam had woken them up and did, you know, other stuff).

But eventually getting up, eating a light breakfast and then heading out for a run, sometimes lasting for a couple of hours (Rhonda was in serious training again and running for miles and _miles_ now, Jesus).  But Dean went with her.  Like he’d promised.

And keeping another promise too, teaching Rhonda self defense.  The two of them arriving back at her house, sweaty, thirsty, legs aching, stumbling into the kitchen and drinking about a gallon of water each.  Then heading to the backyard, warm in the late spring sun.  Standing, facing each other.  Squaring off.  Dean taking a breath, assuming the hachiji dachi stance.

Rhonda giggling.

Dean.  “Stop laughin!  This is serious.”

Rhonda straightening her face out.  “Yup.” 

Dean staring at her silently.  Then lunging.

Rhonda crouching.  Then side stepping, turning gracefully.  Attempting to grab Dean into the clinch hold he’d showed her, the one that sets up your opponent for an excruciating finger stab into the eyes or throat, stunning them so you can get away.  She missed.  Dean grabbed her and threw her onto the ground.  Landed on top of her.

 _“Oof,_ hey!”

“Serves you right,” Dean said.  “Who’s laughin now?”  And he put a hand on her breast.  Squeezed.

 _“Hey!”_   Rhonda looked mad now.  And suddenly twisted her body and brought a knee up, driving it into Dean’s side.  Then her thumb, lightning fast, jabbing into the pressure point on Dean’s forearm.   “Yeow!”  Dean let go of her breast.  And then Rhonda put her thumb on _another_ pressure point just under his ribs and dug right in, aiming for the organ below, with Dean yelping again and backing up automatically.  Allowing her to scramble out from under him and get to her feet.  And advance on him with a look on her face that said Dean was about to get stomped.

Dean held up a hand.  “Okay, okay, Jesus.”  Rhonda paused.  Dean stood up.  “That wasn’t bad,” he said.  “Let’s go again.”  He assumed the karate stance again, Rhonda mirroring him this time, her bright eyes focused. 

So practicing like this, teaching Rhonda the holds and pressure points, the same lessons Dean had learned (painfully) from his dad and other hunters, that he’d taught Sam and practiced with him until Sam was as skilled as him (almost), the two of them sparring with deadly grace, often under the approving eyes of their dad (and sometimes other hunters – their dad liked to show his boys off).

Sam and Dean had sparred like this in front of Rhonda, not so long ago, after Dean had spent some time demonstrating the body’s pressure points to Rhonda with Sam as his model (and Sam fairly displeased about this, standing there obediently but griping and wincing). 

But then eager for payback, suddenly attacking his brother, Sam exhibiting his hard won knowledge of martial arts on _Dean,_ and Dean not about to be taken down by his little brother in front of Rhonda and grappling Sam back, the two of them going at each other, hard.

 Rhonda shrieking.  Annoyingly.

 _“Dean!_   Don’t hurt him!”

Sam grinning, the little brat.  “Yeah, Dean, don’t be a bully.”  And moving seamlessly towards a choke hold.

Dean panting.  Attempting to throw Sam off, this wiry, surprisingly strong _kid,_ who’d magically turned into an octopus.  Finally getting a grip on him and throwing Sam down.  Pinning him.

“Hey!”  But now Sam writhing underneath him, _on purpose,_ a shocking curl of pleasure suddenly low in Dean’s belly.

Distracting him, leaving him open to those lethal, knife-like fingers that Sam knew how to employ, suddenly stabbing up. 

Dean grabbing Sam’s wrist, a little thoughtlessly.

_“Ow!”_

Rhonda.  “DEAN!”

Dean letting go of Sam’s wrist.  “O- _kay._   God.”

Sam rubbing his wrist.  Pouting.  Working it.  The puppy eyes.

Rhonda.  “Sam, are you okay?”  Cooing.  Jesus.

“I _think_ so,” Sam’s trembling voice.  Dean rolling his own eyes.

Rhonda glaring at him.  “Was that _necessary?”_

“Yes,” Dean muttered.  _He_ was glaring now.  At his brother.   Who was sitting there cradling his wrist, looking about as dangerous as a six year old girl.  But then suddenly lunging up, grabbing Dean quicker than thought and taking him down, pinning Dean into a judo hold, one you can’t get out of without risking permanent injury. 

Sam hooting. 

Dean lying under him.  Grumbling.  “Okay you fuckin moron, you’ve made your point.  Lemme up.”

“Nope,” Sam said cheerfully.  And holding Dean fast, a deadly little octopus.  “You’re good like this.”

Rhonda staring down at the two of them, looking rather confused.  Sam smiled at her.  “You c’n tickle him if you want,” he said generously.  And Rhonda’s eyes suddenly sparkling.

“No, hey-“ Dean began, but it was too late, Rhonda advancing on him, fingers extended.  And then tickling Dean mercilessly, _also_ hooting, while Sam held him down. 

And Dean laughing helplessly.  And not just because of the tickling.  But because.  This situation was so _ridiculous._

So anyway.

A lot of what he and Rhonda ended up doing with each other was working out.  In various ways.

After the running (and/or the sparring practice, and/or the weight training) they often found themselves going at each other.  Ripping each other’s clothes off (or more like, Rhonda ripping _Dean’s_ clothes off and Dean undressing her fairly carefully because Rhonda was particular about her clothes and didn’t want them damaged).  And then fucking, enjoyably, trying out various positions.  And afterwards showering, rushing now, not wanting to be late to work (because Cal seriously didn’t appreciate it and didn’t hesitate to tell Dean off if they showed up late –it didn’t seem to occur to Cal that this was also _Rhonda’s_ fault).

The diner staff had figured out that Rhonda and Dean were an item.  Shelley hadn’t been pleased, but hadn’t said anything other than, “No drama,” while staring at Rhonda and Dean sternly.  They’d nodded meekly (with Sam looking on, with this _righteous_ expression on his face, the little bitch.)

But anyway.  Dean found he was enjoying these mornings with Rhonda. 

It was like _playing._   You know?

I mean, he’d played with Sam, when Sam was little.  But that had actually been a lot like work.  Because, you know…Sammy had been a _baby._   And then a toddler.  And then a little kid.  Needing attention.  Expecting it.  And then…even when Sam had gotten older…well…Dean hadn’t really been _playing_ with him.  He’d been _raising_ Sam.  Training him.  _Disciplining_ him.  And later, he’d been…they’d been…well it wasn’t exactly like _playing._   You know?

But with Rhonda…Dean could play.

At just being a guy, right?  You know, regular.

It was kind of nice.

And Sam was fine with it too.  He was letting Dean play, Dean could see that.  Because it made Sam happy, to see that.

(And that was great, seeing Sam happy like that.)

So, okay.

Yeah.

Rhonda and Dean had just finished working out (running, then weights).  And then dragging themselves upstairs, slippery with sweat, showering immediately (Rhonda insisting – she’d just washed her sheets yesterday) and then back to her room, flopping themselves down on her bed for a quick nap, not bothering to dress or even close the door (Jeannie was at work and Sam was at school). 

Dean snoozing under a warm shaft of sunlight.

A hand, gently stroking him.  Dean surfaced from a light sleep.  “Sa-“ and catching himself just in time.  Putting his hand on top of Rhonda’s hand.  “What you doin?”  The sound of his voice, rough and sleepy. 

 _“I_ dunno.”  Rhonda’s voice, teasing.  “What d’you want me to do?”

Dean let his hand relax.  “Whatever you want,” he mumbled.  “Go to town.”

“Okay,” Rhonda said.  And then one finger, lightly circling a nipple.  “Mmmm,” Dean murmured.

“Like that?” Rhonda whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.   And then Rhonda, moving to Dean’s other nipple.  Touching it exquisitely, the way Sam would touch it (and had Sam _shown_ her how to do that?  Dean wondered this briefly.  But then he lost that train of thought with Rhonda’s tongue now on his nipple, lapping at him.  And now her teeth, biting down gently).  “Mmm…oh,” Dean said.  He’d arched under Rhonda’s mouth.  And his cock hard now, twitching.

“Like _that?”_ Rhonda whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  And Rhonda, laughing softly.  But then silence.  And now she’d stopped touching him.

Dean opened his eyes.   Rhonda was sitting cross legged on the bed, gazing down at him.

“What you lookin at?” Dean asked.

“You,” Rhonda replied.  Her eyes were soft.  “You’re so gorgeous.”

Dean smiled.  “Gorgeous, huh?”

Rhonda smiled back.  “Yeah.  My gorgeous, beautiful man-doll.”

Dean snorted.  “I thought that was _Sam,”_ he said.  “Isn’t _he_ your doll?”

Rhonda grinned.  “Sam’s my _girl_ doll,” she said.  “You’re my man-doll.”

“Oh,” Dean said.  Girl-doll.  Sam.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He started to sit up.

Rhonda’s hand on his chest.  “Stay there,” she said.  “I haven’t finished looking at you yet.”

Dean lay back, feeling his tired muscles relax.  Rhonda’s hand stroking him again, slowly over his belly.  Then lower.  Folding around his cock.

Dean had closed his eyes.  “Mmmm,” he murmured again.  He felt his thighs sprawling open.

“You sound just like Sam when you do that,” Rhonda said.  Her hand, stroking.

“…I do?” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “Sam loves being petted.  He purrs, like a cat.”

“Oh really,” Dean said.  His cock, twitching under Rhonda’s hand.  He arched his hips up.  Rhonda slapped him lightly.  “Down boy,” she said.  Laughed.   Said, “Be a good boy like Sammy.  Lie still.”

Dean pressed his butt down into the bed.  He was rock hard now.  The image of Sam lying still like this _(and being petted/slapped)_ had done that to him.  “Do more,” he said.

Rhonda’s fingers, light on his skin.  “What do you say?” she whispered.

“Please,” Dean whispered back.

Rhonda’s fingers.  “That’s not enough,” she whispered.  “Say it like Sam does.”

“How-“ Dean began, but then he understood.  “Please Rhonda,” he whispered softly.

And now Rhonda’s hand grasping his cock.  Pulling on him, running her thumb over the tingling tip of his cock, sliding it over the moisture there.  Dean made a sound of pleasure, low in his throat.  His hips, arched up again.

“Like that, huh?” Rhonda asked.  Her voice was husky.  Dean opened his eyes, gazed up at her.  Rhonda’s changeable, weird colour eyes, those weirdly familiar eyes, staring at him.  Glinting golden.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  Rhonda smiled.  “My man-doll,” she said.  And pulling on him.  Dean bit his lip.  “Harder,” he said.

“Nah,” Rhonda said.  And her fingers, her thumb, working him with a gentle, merciless pressure.  “Not yet,” she said.   “I’m liking just _this.”_

Dean’s head had rolled back.  “You like doin this with Sam?” he asked, speaking with some difficulty.

“Yeah,” Rhonda replied.  “He likes it too.  Tosses his head around just like you do.”  

Dean could see that.  He wet his lips.  “What else-“ he stopped.  Because of Rhonda, pulling on him so gently.  That thumb.  “Oh,” Dean said.  He tried again.  “So what else does Sam like?” he asked.

Rhonda paused.   Looked at him.  “You like hearing what me ‘n’ Sam do?” she said after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  Rhonda’s hand on him, maddeningly still.  “I do,” he whispered.

“Turns you on, huh?” Rhonda whispered back.  Staring down at him, smiling slightly.  And her fingers, stroking him again.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  Trying not to strain up and push his cock into Rhonda’s hand.  “Don’t stop,” he said.

“What do you say?” Rhonda, murmuring to him.

“Please Rhonda,” Dean whispered.  And Rhonda rewarding this, grasping Dean’s cock firmly.  _Pulling._

 _“Oh_ yeah,” Dean whispered.   He bit his lower lip again.  Rhonda’s eyes on this, darkening.

“You wanna hear what _else_ me ‘n’ Sam do?” Rhonda murmured.  And now her hand on Dean’s hand, placing his hand between her legs, the damp wet heat there. 

“Sure,” Dean said.  And his fingers curling into Rhonda, feeling her twitch under that, satisfyingly.

“Okay…” Rhonda said after a little pause.  “So Sam likes _this…”_ And her hand, leaving Dean’s cock, burrowing deep between his legs.  “He likes it…when I touch him here,” she whispered.  And her fingers, pressing just under Dean’s balls.  Digging in.  Dean drew a sharp breath.  Tensed, his fingers jabbing into Rhonda thoughtlessly.  Rhonda yelped.  She moved away from Dean’s hand, laughing.  “Don’t do that,” she said.  “Re _lax,_ Dean.  And put your legs up.”  And now her hands under his thighs, pushing them up gently.

After a moment Dean raised his legs, lifting the soles of his feet towards the ceiling, that baby pose, the one he’d make Sam do sometimes, air now wafting over his bare asshole.  He bit his lip again, feeling vulnerable suddenly. 

“That’s it,” Rhonda whispered softly.   Staring at him, eyes glinting.  “Open your legs wider.”  And her hand, gently stroking the insides of Dean’s thighs.  Dean let his legs fall open.  He closed his own eyes, not wanting to see Rhonda’s face right now.

Now Rhonda’s fingers on him again, softly massaging the underside of his balls.  “Sam likes _this,”_ she whispered.  Dean’s breath was shuddering.  He knew that, actually.  He knew that about Sam, about his brother.  Rubbing Sam between his legs, that soft skin there and Sam purring like a cat.  And then-

“Do the next thing,” Dean whispered. 

“What thing?” Rhonda asked.  Her hand, still rubbing him.  Gently.  Maddeningly.  “The –the next thing,” Dean said.  He was biting his lip again.  Jesus, didn’t she _know?_   “The next thing that Sam likes.”  And Dean could see it, Rhonda’s slender fingers sliding into Sam’s _ass,_ sliding in there up to the hilt while Sam writhed and moaned.  Sam would do that to Dean, sometimes.  But not all that often, and Dean never felt he could ask for it.  “C’mon-“ Dean said.  “Don’t stop now.”

But Rhonda, pressing her fingers down on him, just under his balls, teasing that deep pleasure, the one you could only really get to from the _inside._ “Are you sure?” she asked.  “That’s what you really want?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered.  And straining up against her fingers now, he couldn’t help it.

“Pardon?” Rhonda said.  And she slapped his cock, lightly.

“Yes Rhonda,” Dean whispered.  He was biting his lip again.  “Please.”

“You’ll have to put some panties on for me first,” Rhonda said.  “That’s what _Sam_ does.”

Dean opened his eyes.  “What?”  He saw Rhonda gazing down at him, looking _amused,_ the little bitch.  “Are you fuckin _kidding?”_ Dean said.  He started to sit up.  To hell with _this,_ he was going to turn Rhonda over onto her hands and knees and fuck her.  _Hard,_ like usual.  But then Rhonda’s hands, firm on his thighs.  Holding him in place.  “No, no, you just stay there, big boy,” she crooned.   “You want to do like Sam, we’re gonna do like Sam.”

Dean looked at her.  Shook his head.  “No,” he said.

I mean, like, _no._   Okay, so he could _play_ with Rhonda sure, but…no.  Not like that.

“What are you, _chicken?”_ Rhonda said.  She grinned at him.

Bitch.

Dean sat up.  “Turn over,” he said.  “You’re gettin it.”

Rhonda didn’t move.  She was still grinning.  “Not yet,” she said.  “We’re settlin this first.  Here you are…all hot ‘n’ bothered to try out what me ‘n’ _Sam_ do.   But then when I _really_ get into it…you back off.  That sounds like chicken to me.”  And then she flapped her arms like wings.  “Bawk bawk bawk!”

Dean grabbed her.  Shook her slightly.  “Don’t do that,” he said. 

Rhonda shrugged, still grinning at him.  “Then _you_ do it,” she said.  “You do what Sam does.”  Looked at him.  “I dare you.”

Dean stared back.  “Tell me what exactly you do with him first,” he replied finally.  And you know…now he _really_ wanted to know.  Just _what_ had Sam (that little bitch) been doing, out of Dean’s sight?  With _this_ one.  This _other_ bitch.

Rhonda looked smug.  “Well…first of all…” she said.  “Sam likes me to dress him up.  _Doll_ him up, my little Sam-doll, you know?  Makeup, little outfits, the whole nine yards.  Pantyhose.  And sometimes I put a bra on him.  You know?”

Dean shut his eyes.  Sam in _pantyhose._ And a _bra,_ Jesus.  How come _Dean_ had never thought of that?  He’d been missing out, here.  “Go on,” he said tightly.

“And after I dress him up…” Rhonda said, “I _un_ dress him.  Slowly.  One piece at a time.”

Dean’s eyes, now shut against _this_ sight, Rhonda stripping those girl clothes off of Sam.  Slowly.  One piece at a time, oh my god.  “Uh huh,” he said helplessly.  And Rhonda’s hand, suddenly on his cock.  Dean gasped before he could help it.

“You’re really hard,” Rhonda said conversationally.  “You _like_ what I’m tellin you, huh Dean?”

“Finish it,” Dean said.  Through his teeth.  “And _then_ you’ll find out how much I like it.  Bitch.”

Rhonda laughed.  “Okay,” she said.  In this infuriating, _cozy_ voice.  “So _then…_ once Sam’s down to his little panties…I stroke him.  Sometimes in front of the mirror, so he can see.  And sometimes on the bed.  Make him put his legs up, like I did with you.  Stroke him till he’s wet, just like a girl.  And maybe put my mouth on him.  Chew on him a little bit.  If he asks nice.”

“Fuck,” Dean whispered.  He was shuddering. 

Rhonda laughed.  But Dean could hear her breath, coming fast.  This was turning her on too.  “And then what?” he whispered.  “Tell me, bitch.”

“And _then…”_ Rhonda said.  “I peel those panties off him.  Slowly.  Sometimes while he’s standing up.  But sometimes when he’s on his back, like you were.  Or up on his hands and knees, like a good little doggy.  Panting for it.”

“For _what?”_ Dean whispered.  He’d turned his face into the pillow.  Sam, Sammy, doing that, putting his panty-clad little butt into the air for this girl, god.  God _dam_ nit.  But Rhonda’s hand, stroking Dean’s cock.   Pulling on it.  “How we doin down there?” she crooned.

Dean grabbed her hand.  “Stop it!” he said.  His cock, throbbing.  “Just tell me the rest,” he said.

“You’ll have to put your legs up again,” Rhonda said.  “Or I _stop_ alright.  Right here.”

 _“Bitch,”_ Dean muttered.  But he lay down, raised his legs again.  Rhonda chuckled.  “And _then…_ ” she said, “I run my fingers down along him like _this…”_   And she ran one finger down the crack of Dean’s ass, very lightly.  Circled his asshole, tickling the sensitive skin.  “And then _this…”_ she whispered.  And now two fingers, harder this time.  Pressing that spot just under Dean’s balls, seeking out the buried nerves.  Pressing _down._

 _“Oh,”_ Dean choked out.  His ass was wriggling around.  He had a pained vision of how this must look, he _knew_ how it looked.  He’d seen Sam wriggling like this, plenty of times. 

“And _then_ we-“ Rhonda said.  And stopped.  Dean opened his eyes.  “You _what?”_ he asked.  _Gasping,_ Jesus.

Rhonda was smiling at him.  She shrugged.  “We fuck, usually,” she said.  “Sam gets all hot and then we fuck.  Or sometimes he goes down on me first.  The tongue on that boy…” and she shrugged again.  And _smiled,_ that bitch smile that made her and Sam look like twins.  But then she bent her head down between Dean’s legs and kissed him, his cock, his balls, that throbbing flesh underneath his balls.  Nuzzled her face there.  Dean groaned.  “You tellin me that’s _all_ you do?” he asked.  His head was rolling back again.

“No,” Rhonda mumbled.  And mouthing him, hard.  “Rhonda, fuck,” Dean gasped.  He put his hands into her hair and yanked on it.  

“Hey!” 

“Feels great, huh?” Dean said.   “Stop teasin me, Jesus.”

“Thought that’s what you wanted,” Rhonda said.  She was lapping at him busily.  Nipping.  Dean groaned.  “Rhonda, c’mon-“

“There _is_ something else I do with Sam…” Rhonda said.  Dean stilled.  “What’s that?” he said.  Rhonda didn’t answer.  “Tell me,” Dean said.

Rhonda looked up.  Dean saw her lively, pretty face with those startling eyes, grinning at him from between his legs.  “You want to know, I’m _showin_ you,” she said sweetly.  “Not _tellin_ you.”

Dean glared at her.  Rhonda grinned.  Then kissed him lightly on his balls.  Looked up at him again, grinning.  Dean let his head fall back, defeated.  “Fine,” he muttered.  “Show me then.”

Rhonda laughed.  Dean sighed.  “Well get on with it,” he said.  He was staring up at the ceiling.  Seeing Sam’s face up there, thinking about all the things he’d ended up doing because of _Sam,_ Jesus.  But then he felt Rhonda crawling over him.  She straddled him, perching herself on Dean’s chest.  Put her face in front of his, her eyes sparkling. 

“What colour panties you want to wear?” she asked.  “Pink or white?”

Dean was silent.  “You choose,” he said after a moment.

Rhonda, grinning at him.   “Okay.”

***

Dean was standing in front of the mirror on Rhonda’s closet door.  Staring at his mostly naked body reflected back against this pink, girly room.  Wearing nothing but a pair of pink satin panties, small on him, the elastic digging uncomfortably into his ass.  His cock and balls an awkward, straining pink lump, barely contained under the tight, slick fabric.  Rhonda had put the panties on him, pulling them up, handling his hard cock rather roughly.

“Ouch!”  Dean wincing, stepping back.  “They’re too tight, Rhonda, stop it.”

“Don’t be a baby.”  Rhonda was shoving his cock under the panties, prodding at it like it was a piece of dough.  “You don’t want this showing, it wouldn’t look right.”

“Oh yeah, can’t have _that,”_ Dean said.  Wincing.  “Just cripple me for life, it’s okay.”

“Baby,” Rhonda said unsympathetically.  _“Sam_ doesn’t complain.”

“Well I guess that’s cause I’m _bigger,”_ Dean said.  Smugly. 

“Nope,” Rhonda said.  “Sam fits tight, just like you.  He doesn’t whine about it though.”

Dean glared at her.  Rhonda grinned.  Patted him.  “There you are,” she said.  “All tucked in.  Come see.”  And she turned him towards the mirror.

Dean stared.

At this vision of himself, in pink panties.

Which should have looked ridiculous but…didn’t, somehow.   If fact…they looked kind of _good_ on him, actually (not that he’d ever say so).   But he looked…

Kind of the way _Sam_ looked _(delicious)_ when Sam dressed up for Dean like that.  Letting Dean know he was ready.

To be spanked.  Fucked.  Or for anything else Dean had in mind for him.

Delicious.

Dean met Rhonda’s eyes in the mirror.  She gazed back at him, serious now.  “What do you see?” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” Dean answered.  He felt his breath coming fast.  “What _do_ I see?”

Rhonda didn’t answer for a moment.  Then said, “The most beautiful boy in the world.  All wrapped up, like a present.”

Dean started to laugh.  But then stopped.

Beautiful.  No.

“Don’t call me beautiful,” he said.  “Or _boy,_ either.”

“Why not?” Rhonda asked him.  “That’s what you are.  One fine, beautiful boy.”

“No,” Dean said.  He turned away from the mirror.  “Take them off,” he said.

Rhonda’s hands on his hips.  “Not yet,” she said.  She was behind him now, pressing herself against Dean’s back.  Her hands, stroking over his hips and thighs.  Stroking over his cock, under the pink satin.  “Look back at the mirror,” she whispered.  “Just look.”

After a moment Dean turned back to his reflection.  And stared.

He’d rarely looked at himself in a full length mirror.  The places his family stayed in – they didn’t have large mirrors as a rule (not even Bobby’s house, come to think of it).  And Dean wouldn’t just hang out in front of one anyway, especially not naked (he could just hear his dad’s views on _that)_.  And also –now that he’d accepted the way he looked (more or less), he didn’t spend time pondering his reflection.   I mean – he understood he was…good looking (I guess), I mean, people’s reactions to him told him everything he needed to know about that.   But it wasn’t that awesome.  I mean, his looks…they attracted people sure, but they also isolated him in this weird way.  Because people didn’t see _him,_ okay?– they saw his face, that weapon his dad had taught him to deploy.  That rare and useful weapon, Mary’s legacy to her oldest son.  Dean’s gift and now his responsibility.  To use.  To _be_ , as required.

Bait.

So yeah.  Dean didn’t look at himself much anymore.   Not for fun, anyways.

But now.

Dean stared at his reflection.  Seeing.

A tall youth with dark blonde hair cut in a short, almost military style (same as his dad’s).  A day’s worth of dark gold stubble on his cheeks.  A dusting of gold hair on his chest, legs and forearms, catching the sunlight that was pouring into Rhonda’s room and glinting around him like an outline of gold.  Outlining a body as finely carved as a marble statue, with broad, hard shoulders and arms, hard, flat planes of chest and abdomen and lean, strong legs, those sculpted muscles a silent testament to Dean’s years of unforgiving training. 

Dean had always liked his body (this capable, highly trained weapon), but now he really _saw_ it, this young body with its hard muscles and fine skin (as satiny as Sam’s, but Dean’s skin was pale and sprinkled with golden freckles, unlike Sam’s skin, which had a warmer, more olive tone like their dad’s), Dean’s skin gleaming in the sunlit pink of Rhonda’s room.   And his face.  Dean stared at his face, a pale oval, oval like Sam’s but without those knife sharp cheekbones and brows – Dean’s face different than Sam’s…not   _softer_ exactly but more, let’s say _(delicate)_ finely featured (not that Dean would _ever_ say that, not in a million years) and scattered with golden freckles too. 

His face.  Dean considered it, gazing thoughtfully at his nose (and both Sam _and_ Rhonda seemed to love his freckly nose, they were constantly kissing it, with Dean grumbling) and then his mouth, the curve of his mouth that seemed to drive people wild.  His nose, his mouth, they looked…good…(didn’t they?)  _Harmonious,_ somehow.  And his eyebrows too, that Sam (and Rhonda) would run their fingers over, admiring their shape.  And his chin with its slight cleft, it looked…good…too (didn’t it?)  Not hard looking, like _Sam’s_ bony chin (which he’d drill into Dean’s shoulder, unapologetically) but not soft either.  A…shapely chin.  Finely shaped, like the rest of Dean’s face.

Shapely.  Huh.

Dean stared at his face, which seemed to give so many people such trouble and found himself… _liking it_ (maybe?)   I mean, finally seeing what people saw maybe, when they looked at him.

_(Beautiful)_

But no.  No.

“I look like a dork in these things,” Dean said to Rhonda.  His hands went to the waistband of the panties.  “I’m takin ‘em off.”

Her hands covering his hands.  “No,” she said.   “Just give it a second, okay?”  And now stroking him again, gently.  “Let me enjoy my present,” she whispered.

Dean stilled reluctantly.  Rhonda’s fingers, stroking over the tightly contained bulge of his cock.  Gently cupping him, _weighing_ him, that tight package he made under there.

Dean was rock hard again suddenly.  The panties made that a little awkward.  “Er…Rhonda…” he said.

Rhonda stroking him.  “That’s it,” she whispered.  “So nice ‘n’ hard ‘n’ _tight_ now, just like Sam.”  And stroking.  “You like that Dean?”

Dean was shaking (at this vision of _Sam,_ obediently standing there in panties, his cock so tightly wrapped…throbbing…)

“Yeah,” he whispered.  He’d closed his eyes.  Rhonda grasped him through the slick fabric.  Pulled on him.  “Don’t do that,” she whispered back.  “Open your eyes.”  Dean opened his eyes, saw them staring back at him out of the mirror, a soft dark green now, hazy with pleasure.  “That’s it,” Rhonda whispered.   Her eyes on his.  “You keep looking, beautiful boy.”

Dean took a breath.  He swallowed, seeing himself swallow in the mirror.  Ran his tongue over dry lips.  “Rhonda…” he said.

“Yeah?”  Her thumb, finding the tip of his cock.  Dean took a sharp breath.  Bit his lip.  He saw Rhonda smile.

“…What else do you ‘n’ Sam do, when he’s standin here like this?” Dean asked.  Watching himself leaning back, arched back against this slim, strong girl, this _athlete_ who’d pound out those long miles beside him.

Rhonda smiled.  “I rub his ass,” she whispered.  And one hand now rubbing Dean’s butt, Rhonda’s fingers digging in to the tired muscles expertly, her other hand still on his cock.  Dean felt his eyes fluttering shut again. 

Rhonda spanked him.  Dean’s eyes flew open.  “Hey!”

“I told you not to close your eyes,” she said.  And then she spanked him again.  Dean grabbed her hand.  “Don’t do that,” he said.  But Jesus, he was even _harder_ now, if possible, his cock standing up under the panties sharply. 

Rhonda laughed.  And now her hand rubbing his butt again, luxuriously.  “You don’t like that?  _Sam_ doesn’t seem to mind a little spanking.  He asked me to, once.”

“He _did?”_ Dean said.  Through his teeth.  That little bitch.  Sam was going to get all the spanking he could handle, once him and Dean were alone again.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said cheerfully.  “So I smacked his butt a little bit.  Got it nice ‘n’ pink.  He liked that.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispered.  He was shuddering.  And watching that in the mirror, his darkened eyes, his open mouth, his body arched back, his straining cock under the gleaming fabric of those panties.

Rhonda suddenly pressed herself against him.  Dean could feel her pussy hair tickling against his skin.  “Oh Dean, omigod,” she whispered.  And her hands hard now on his cock, kneading him.  “You are so _hot,_ omigod,” she whispered.

Dean let his cock push into her hands, the heavy weight of it.  “What else do you do with Sam?” he whispered.  “Tell me.”

“No,” Rhonda whispered back.  “I want to fuck you now.”  And her teeth suddenly nipping Dean’s back.  “C’mon.”

“No,” Dean whispered.  “Not yet.”  Then asked.  “What else?”

Rhonda had pressed her breasts into his back.  Dean could feel her velvety nipples rubbing against him.  And the rough mound of her pussy, brushing him.  “Dean,” Rhonda whispered.  And her hands on his hips now, pulling him backwards.  “Come back to the bed, c’mon-“

“-No!”  Dean said.  He grabbed one of Rhonda’s hands and put it back on his cock, his own hand holding hers down, firmly.  Watched himself doing that in the mirror, their two hands on top of that hard bulge.   “Tell me what else first,” he said. 

Rhonda looked at him.  “Okay,” she said after a moment.  “Well…um…this one time I asked Sam to-“ she stopped.

 _“What?”_ Dean asked.  But her hands on him again.  _Kneading_ him.  _“Oh,”_ Dean whispered, shuddering.

“I asked him to pull on his own tits,” Rhonda whispered.   She was starting to smile again, staring at Dean in the mirror.  “Like a girl does when she’s…you know…takin care of herself.”

“And did he?” Dean whispered.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered back.  Smiling sweetly now.  “He did a real good job.  I bet you could too.  You want to show me, Dean?”

Dean’s hands moved to his nipples.   Pinched them.  “Like that?” he said.

Rhonda’s smiling face.  “Yeah,” she said.  “That’s pretty good.  But Sam pulled harder.  Used his thumbs.”  And her hands, kneading him, _torturing_ him under those tight panties.  Dean bit his lip.  Then pulled on his nipples sharply.   Pressed his thumbs down on them, a tingle of pain.  “Like _that?”_ he asked. 

Rhonda observed this.   _Pondered._   “Yeah,” she said after a moment.  “Kinda like that.  Sam worked himself over pretty good though.  While I was helping him out down _here,”_   and demonstrating this.  Dean moaned involuntarily.   Saw Rhonda’s expression change.  “Pull on them again,” she whispered.   Her eyes on him, intent.  Dean pulled on his nipples again.  Used his thumbs.  His nipples, sore and throbbing now.

“You’re wet under these,” Rhonda whispered.  Stroking the panties.  “Just like a girl.  It’s time to fuck, Dean.“

“Not yet,” Dean said.  “What else?”

Rhonda sighed.    _“Well…”_ she said.  “One time I had Sam up here, in front of the mirror…”  And staring at Dean with those golden eyes.  Dean stared back.  “Yeah?” he said.

“And he asked me to use my fingers on him,” Rhonda said.  She was smiling slightly again.  _“Inside,_ you know?”

“…Uh huh…” Dean said after a moment.  “So did you?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “After I cut my nails real short.  See?”  And she waved her fingers under Dean’s nose.  Sure enough, her fingernails were cut all the way back.  Dean laughed, he couldn’t help it.  “Oh Jesus,” he muttered.  “I c’n just see it.”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said.  “So anyway, Sam waited for me to do that…’n’ then I made him stand up in front of the mirror again…”  Her hands were on the waistband of the panties.

“Yeah?” Dean whispered.  Watching this.

“’N’ _then…”_ Rhonda said, and she started to peel the panties down off of him.  Slowly.

“Oh,” Dean said quietly.  Watching his cock emerge from under the pink fabric, bobbing. 

“And then I pulled them down…like this,” Rhonda whispered.  And suddenly her hand on Dean’s bare butt.  Rubbing.  “Your _ass,”_ she whispered.  “Holy _shit,_ Dean.”

“Like it, huh?” Dean said absently.  He felt ridiculously pleased.  Watched himself smiling in the mirror.

“Yeah,” Rhonda whispered.  “That’s one beautiful boy ass.”

Dean smiling.  Looking at himself, standing there with this goofy, pleased smile on his face, naked now, with those silly panties pulled halfway down his thighs.  He started to pull them the rest of the way off.

“Stop!” Rhonda said sharply.  Dean froze.  “Leave them there,” Rhonda said.  Then said, “Spread your legs.”

After a moment Dean widened his stance, spreading his thighs, the panties tight now around his thighs, stretched out like a band.

“That’s it,” Rhonda said.  Her hand, rubbing Dean’s butt.  “And then I did…this,” she whispered.  And her fingers, slipping between her own legs, disappearing into herself, re-appearing, slick with moisture.  Dean watched this, swallowing.   “And then _this,”_ Rhonda whispered.   And those slick fingers, rubbing along the crack of his ass now.  “Bend over,” Rhonda whispered.  Dean swallowed again.  Watched this in the mirror, his intent expression, his mouth, slightly open.  Rhonda patted him.  “Over,” she whispered.  Dean bit his lip.  Then bent over, slightly.  “Stick your ass out,” Rhonda whispered.  “Just like Sam did.”  Dean complied, shuddering.  “That’s it,” Rhonda whispered.  Her fingers against his asshole.  “And then I did _this,”_ she said.  And one long finger, sliding all the way into him.  And then another.  Two long slender fingers, finding that spot she’d been teasing from the _outside._

 _“Oh,”_ Dean whispered.  Tightening sharply around those fingers.  “Oh _fuck…”_

 _“Yeah,”_ Rhonda whispered back.  She was smiling now.  And her fingers plunging into him, _pushing_ against him, finding those deep nerves.  “Oh my fucking god,” Dean whispered.  Watching himself standing there with those pulled down panties, his ass sticking out awkwardly, skewered there, helpless, his flushed cock bobbing into the air.  “Sam said pretty much the same thing,” Rhonda said sweetly.  And her fingers, digging into him.  “He wanted to get the _full_ experience of being fucked…we tried out all the different spots...” her voice lowered, a smooth murmur.  “Finding what felt good…” And now her fingers _fluttering_ inside of him.  Finding those _spots._

 _“Oh-“_ Dean bit the inside of his cheek.  His ass was wriggling around helplessly.  He felt himself blushing with embarrassment, that pale skin of his flushing red.  “That little b-“ He bit back the words.  Sam, that sneaky little…playing so innocent, getting Rhonda to do this to him.  _Directing_ her.  “Did Sam-“ and Dean’s hands moved to his own cock.  He couldn’t wait any longer, he needed to come.  _Now._

 Rhonda dug her fingers into him, _hard._

_“OW!”_

“You’re saving that for me,” she said.  “You just pull on your tits again.”

Dean was gasping.  His hands moved back to his nipples.  He pulled on them, shuddering.  And now a blast of sensation as Rhonda found that deep spot (the spot that Dean would locate in _Sam_ , with his brother moaning helplessly) and pressing on it, rubbing hard.  Dean clenched his teeth.  _“Oh,”_ he said.  “Rhonda, we need to fuck _now-“_

Rhonda laughed.  And continued what she was doing, seemingly not in a rush anymore.  “Nah,” she said.  “I’m kinda _enjoying_ myself here.  Maybe we’ll see if we can make you come like this…Sam ‘n’ I tried but we never made it all the way.  He’d get too hot ‘n’ then he’d grab me and _fuck_ me.  Fuck me _hard,_ holy shit.  Which was still pretty damn good.  But still.”

Oh Jesus.  Dean could see that too.  Sam standing like this and suddenly deciding, enough already.  Turning, grabbing Rhonda, throwing her down, taking her hard and fast.

Sam getting himself some payback, arched over Rhonda suddenly, using that long cock of his.  Dean could see it.

He was biting his lip.  “I can’t – I can’t-“  And pleasure, suddenly spiralling through his _ass._   “Oh _fuck-“_ he gasped.

Rhonda laughing.   “So shall we try on _you?_   Dean?”  And then _poking_ him, deliciously, Dean shuddering-

But suddenly the front door slamming.  Sam’s voice.  “Dean!  Guess what!”  And now Sam’s footsteps, Sam running up the stairs, Sam could move so _fast,_ Jesus.

Dean had jumped away from Rhonda.  His hands were on the panties, yanking them off, Dean staring frantically at the open bedroom door.  “Rhonda!  Close the-“

But too late.  Sam appeared in the doorway, beaming, his face glistening with perspiration (like he’d run all the way from school), his knapsack in one hand.  “Dean, guess what-“ he stopped, his eyes widening. 

Dean stared back at him helplessly, his little brother, so tall now, as slender and graceful as a gazelle, sweating gorgeously into a white cotton t-shirt, that shaggy rocker hair of his falling over his eyes.  Sam put his knapsack down.  Then pushed his hair out of the way, that gesture so _known_ to Dean, so heartbreakingly familiar.

“Dean, what-“  Suddenly Sam’s eyes were on the panties on the floor.  He looked back at Dean sharply.  “What’s goin on?”

“Nothin,” Dean muttered.  He felt himself blushing again, his skin hot.  He turned away from his brother, his hands covering his cock, still humiliatingly hard, but fading fast.  Tried to speak normally.  “Why’d you barrel up here like that Sammy?  You know better.”

“Well why’d you have the _door_ open, moron?” Sam snapped.   And glaring at Dean like _Dean_ had done something wrong here. 

“We didn’t think we’d be disturbed,” Rhonda said.  “You weren’t supposed to _be_ here right now, remember?”

Sam looked at her for half a second.  Then his eyes, back on Dean.  “I had some good news,” he said.  “Ran all the way back here to share it.”

“What is it?” Dean asked.  He sat down on the bed, covering himself with a corner of quilt.  He felt shaky again, but not in a good way. 

“Never mind.”  Sam’s voice, as cold as ice.  “Doesn’t matter anymore.  So what were you _doin,_ Dean?”

 _“Nothin_ Sammy,” Dean said.  “We were just foolin around.”

“With _those?”_   Sam’s voice whipped like a lash.  He pointed to the panties on the floor.

Rhonda started to speak.  Dean looked at her.  He felt panicky suddenly.  Rhonda glanced at him briefly then stared, her eyes widening as she caught his expression. 

“…No,” she said after a moment.  Speaking to Sam but still staring at Dean.  “Not with those.  We were just doing…other stuff, Sam.  Before you _walked in_ on us.”

“Uh huh.”  Sam’s voice was hard.  He was staring at Rhonda now, his eyes like stones.  “So what’re _they_ doin out?  And why does Dean look like _that?”_

“Like wh-“ Dean began, but then saw his reflection in the mirror.  His flushed face, his hazy eyes, his broken open, softened expression.  God.  That was _Sam’s_ expression, once Sam had been teased and tormented to the very brink of coming.  Writhing helplessly under Dean’s hands.  Was _that_ what Sam saw right now?  Dean was blushing, all over again.  He opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Bit his lip.  He had to get himself together here.  He looked at Sam again, helplessly.  Then at Rhonda.

She came to his rescue.

“I was _wearing_ them Sam, god!”  Rhonda snapped.  “So I took them off, okay?  What’s the _matter_ with you?  And Dean doesn’t look any-”  But then she looked at Dean again.  And Dean saw her pause.  He couldn’t meet her eyes suddenly.  He looked away.

Sam, his eyes moving rapidly between Rhonda and his silent brother.   “…Uh huh,” he said after a moment.   “Okay.”  He bent and picked up the panties from the floor.  Regarded them.  Ran his thumb over them.  Held them to his face briefly.  “These are my favourites by the way,” he said to Rhonda and tossed the panties down.   Then continued, his voice suddenly polite, “I’ll let the two of you get dressed now.  Sorry I barged in on you.” 

Sam, sounding so _reasonable._   Dean watched him warily.

“Sure,” Rhonda said.  Her voice was relieved.  “Just close the door behind you, okay?  We’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  Dean looked up.  Sam was standing in front of him now.  “Just one thing first,” Sam said pleasantly, and he raised his hand and struck Dean across the face with shocking force.

Dean’s head rocked back.  He was stunned for a moment, seeing stars.  Heard Rhonda’s voice, dimly.

 _“SAM!_   What are you _doing!”_

“Oh nothin…” Sam said.  He voice hadn’t changed, he still sounded sweet as pie.  “Just foolin around.”  And then striking Dean across the face _again._   Just as hard.

Dean cried out this time, he couldn’t help it.  Tears of pain were in his eyes.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  “Don’t…”  He looked up.  Into Sam’s furious face, pale with rage.

“You fucking SLUT!” Sam shouted.  And now his other hand, lashing across Dean’s other cheek.  Rocking Dean’s head back. 

Rhonda’s voice.  _“SAM!”_   And Rhonda leaping at Sam, grabbing him from behind.  _“Stop it!”_

Sam threw her off.   Then casually knocked her feet out from under her.  Rhonda landed heavily on the floor, crying out.  Sam barely glanced at her.  “You stay there,” he said.  “I don’t want to hurt you Rhonda, but this is between me ‘n’ my brother now.  Don’t get in the way.”  His eyes on Dean.  “You _slut,”_ he said again.  “What were you doin with her?”

Dean’s hand was on his throbbing cheek.  The one Sam had hit first.  It was going to bruise for sure.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  “It was nothin.  Calm down…”

“Calm down,” Sam repeated.  Suddenly he smiled, the most frightening expression Dean had ever seen on him.  “Calm _down_ …when you…you’re…givin that away…to everyone but me…”

“Sam,” Dean whispered.  “What are you _talkin_ about?  C’mon-“

 _“That wasn’t for her!”_ Sam yelled.  “That was for me!  Don’t you _get that?_   You’re nothin but a _slut,_ Dean, givin it away to whoever asks!  Except _ME!”_   And his hands were on Dean’s arms, he was shaking Dean, hard.

“Sammy-” and Dean was terrified now.  Because this conversation couldn’t go where it appeared to be going.  Not in front of Rhonda who was picking herself up off the floor, wincing.  “Sammy c’mon,” he said.  “You _wanted_ me to be with Rhonda, why’re you _bein_ like this-“

“-Not like _that!”_   Sam yelled.  “You think you c’n just go ahead and be her _BITCH?”_ He raised his hand again.

Dean flinched back, put up his own hand.  “Sam-“

 _“That was not for her!”_   Sam yelled.  _“Or_ Phil!  Or any of the others that for all I know you’ve been spreadin your legs for!”

“Sam!” Dean said.  “I haven’t done _anythin_ like that!  I promised you, remember?” 

“Your promises are _SHIT!”_   Sam yelled.  And he was crying.  Dean stared at this, appalled.  “Sam…Rhonda and I weren’t…I mean Jesus, how could we even…I mean…what are you so _mad_ about, Sammy?”

Sam glared at him.  “You really don’t know.”  His voice was cold now.   And his eyes on Dean, merciless.

“No,” Dean said.  But he was shaking again, suddenly.

“That part of you,” Sam said to him.  In a cold, even tone.  “That _bitch_ part…that part you like about _me_ so much…”

Dean felt his lips trembling.  “Sam,” he said.  “Sammy.  Please…”

“That part of you that wants to _get fucked…”_ Sam continued in a whisper.  And now his fingers, stroking Dean’s sore cheek.  Very gently.  After a moment Dean turned his face into Sam’s hand.  He closed his eyes.  “Sammy-“ he whispered back.  “I’m sorry, okay?  Can we please-“

“That part of you is _mine,”_ Sam continued as if Dean hadn’t spoken.  And his fingers, stroking down Dean’s cheek, stroking down over his throat.  Touching Dean so delicately now.  “ _Not_ Rhonda’s, _not_ Phil’s, _not_ for any of those marks you play the slut for on Dad’s say…”

“Sam-“ Dean tried again.  He opened his eyes, glanced at Rhonda, agonized.  She was staring at him, eyes wide with shock.  “You’ve got to stop this…please…”

 _“That part of you is mine!”_   Sam yelled again.  _“Mine, Dean, MINE!”_   And suddenly he pushed Dean back on the bed and leaned over him.  “And I’m supposed to just watch you…givin it away _…_ to everyone else!  You just don’t _get it_ do you?”  Sam yelled.  But his voice was tearful again.  “You fucking _slut!”_

Dean tried to sit up.  Sam immediately put his forearm over Dean’s windpipe and leaned in, cutting off his air.  “No,” he said.  His voice was ugly.  “You’re stayin like that,” he said.  Dean was gagging.  He made a grab for Sam, who immediately pressed down, the weight on Dean’s windpipe suddenly frightening.  Dean froze.  The way Sam was positioned, he could easily crush Dean’s throat.  And Dean had let Sam pin him like that, foolishly assuming that Sam _hadn’t_ lost his mind _._   “Sam,” Dean croaked.  “Lemme up, you’re goin too far-“

That frightening smile again.  “No,” Sam said.  “You’re good like this, slut.”  And suddenly he ripped the quilt away from Dean’s body, exposing him.

Rhonda.  “Sam, get off him, _now.”_

Sam.  “Fuck off, Rhonda.  Thinkin you c’n make my brother _your bitch_ …You get out of here.  Dean ‘n’ I have things to do.”

Rhonda’s voice, hard now.  “I’m not going anywhere.  Now get off him.  You’re hurting him.”

“Nah…” Sam said.  “You’re done bossin _either_ of us around Rhonda…now get out of here.” 

Rhonda.  “No.”

Sam shrugged.   His eyes hadn’t left Dean’s.  “Fine.  You stay, it’s on you.”

Dean went cold.  “No,” he whispered.  “Sam please…think about what you’re doin-”

Sam looked at him, paused.

But then Rhonda’s voice.  “Don’t you threaten me! _”_   And her hands on Sam’s shoulders, yanking him back.  “You’re being _totally out of line_ Sam, I don’t know _what’s_ gotten into you, but-“  Sam snarled and threw her off, tossing her down like a rag doll.  But Dean sat up, free suddenly, and grabbed him.  _“Sam!  Stop it!”_

Sam turned to him, his eyes raw.  “Dean, how could you?“  and his voice was high now, young sounding.  But then he suddenly gripped Dean by the throat.  “ _How could you?”_   Those strong hands, man sized, Sam shaking Dean by the throat but his voice a child’s voice, the voice of the little brother Dean remembered and Dean’s arms opening to him automatically, Dean whispering, agonized, “Sammy-“ and Sam’s tearful eyes on him, Sam’s lips parting…but Rhonda, suddenly grabbing him again.  “Sam, that’s _it!_   You fucking let go of him _NOW!“_

Sam’s eyes blazed.   He didn’t let go, the pressure on Dean’s throat suddenly agonizing.  “FUCK OFF!” he yelled back and Dean was gagging now, black spots clouding his vision and Sam yelling, “You get the fuck out of here, Rhonda!  _I mean it!”_

 _“NO!”_ Rhonda yelled back.  And yanking on Sam violently.  “You’re _hurting him_ you fucking freak!  You let go of him _now!  You leave Dean alone!”_

Sam’s eyes.  Dean saw his pupils dilate, Sam’s eyes like black holes suddenly, rimmed with fiery gold, almost alien looking, horrible to see.  “Freak, huh,” he said quietly.  His grip around Dean’s throat eased and then he smiled, bleak as winter, Dean’s heart twisting at this even as he coughed painfully.  _“Should_ I leave you alone big brother?” Sam whispered.  Staring at Dean with those black eyes like eclipsed suns.  But his thumbs on Dean’s throat, now pressing gently under Dean’s jaw, Sam leaning forward, ignoring Rhonda’s frantic grip on him.  Whispering, “Do you really want that?” And tilting Dean’s face up even as Dean shook his head, whispering “Sammy please…” and

kissing Dean on the mouth.

Kissing, kissing Dean on the mouth, and Dean’s mouth opening under Sam’s mouth, Dean helplessly conscious of Rhonda, still clutching Sam’s shoulders, screaming now _(“Sam!  What are you DOING!”)_ and Sam ignoring this because he was kissing Dean, just kissing him, just kissing Dean like a drug a promise a message…just _kissing_ him with those lips soft and hungry _,_ lighting him up, the fire blazing up between them like always and Dean helpless against it, Dean’s mouth opening to his brother, helplessly.

Sam whispering against his mouth.  “I love you, I love you Dean, I love you and then you _do_ this… _”_

And Dean whispering back, “I didn’t mean to, stop Sam, please-“  but kissing him back, kissing Sam back, his angry, tearful little brother who was nuzzling him now, his lips on Dean’s throat, his body pressed against Dean’s, Sam cuddling into Dean like always but now with his cock between Dean’s legs, deliciously pressing in and Dean holding Sam tight now, so tight against him, so sorry Sam was hurting he hadn’t wanted that, he’d fucked up again somehow-

Rhonda crying.  Her hands still on Sam’s shoulders but without strength now, just resting there, forgotten.   “Dean what’s going _on?”_ she asked, choked.  But then her voice, suddenly fearful.  “Dean!  _WHAT’S GOING ON?”_ And she screamed. 

The sound of that scream, changing suddenly. 

Dean’s whole body went cold.  “Sam,” he said.  “Get off me, NOW.”   He sprang up off the bed.  Sam was on his feet too.  They stared at Rhonda who’d fallen to the floor, now huddled there, her face in her hands.

“…Dean?” Sam said.  His voice, young again.  “What’s wrong with her?”

“Sam, go out to the car,” Dean said.  “Get the holy water, NOW!”

“But-“

“NOW, Sam!” Dean yelled.  Staring at Rhonda, her huddled back, her shoulders shaking. 

With laughter.

Rhonda raised her head.  Smiled up at the brothers, her eyes a cloudy gold. 

“Too late,” she said.  And there was something chillingly weird about her voice.  It sounded…older somehow.  Deeply cynical.  And rougher, almost masculine.  Not Rhonda’s voice.  “That was quite a show boys, thank you for sharing,” the voice said. 

Sam.  “Dean?”

“Be quiet, Sam,” Dean said tightly.  “Get out of her,” he said to the thing on the floor.

The thing in Rhonda’s body laughed.  Then unfolded itself, climbing to its feet gracefully.  “I don’t think so,” it said.  Purring now.  And its hands, stroking over Rhonda’s breasts.  _“What_ a score, thank you boys.  I haven’t had a body like _this_ to play in for a few millenia or so.”

“Get out of her,” Dean said.  “She didn’t _invite_ you.  You have no right to be there, spirit.” 

Laughter.  “She didn’t, true,” the spirit said.  “But _you_ did.   You and Sam laid out the red carpet for me, Dean.  A bridge to the material world, wide as a highway and bright as a neon sign.  _And_ you provided princess here, about as prime a vessel as one could ask for.  As I said… _thank you.”_   And laughter.

“We didn’t _provide_ her,” Dean said.  “That was an accident and you know it.  Now get out of her.”

The spirit shook its head, smiling.  “Nope,” it said.  “You boys crossed into _my_ territory carrying your tasty little treat…no way I’m turning down an opportunity like that _._   Prime girl flesh and completely unwarded.  Wide open for _me,_ tsk tsk on _you._   I thought hunters were more careful with their groupies.”

“Don’t call her that,” Dean said.  “And Sam ‘n’ I have nothin to do with you.  Go back to where you came from.  You have no right to be in this world.”

The spirit looked at him.  “You opened the door Dean,” it said.  “Opened it _wide._   And you’re not stupid,  you know what happens when you open a door to your world like that.  The incorporeal pass through, we just can’t help ourselves.  Opportunities to taste fleshly delights aren’t _so_ common.  You’re just lucky there was only _me_ in the neighbourhood, it could have been worse.  There used to be a spirit in these parts who was into self cannibalism –possessin folks ‘n’ havin them munch on themselves from the fingers up – hunters took care of old Sg-r back in your great-grandfather’s day but by the time they figured out what was going on, there were enough of the mutilated to start their own church.  And they did, for awhile.”  It laughed.

Sam made a sound of disgust.  The spirit’s eyes turned to him.  “Sammy,” it murmured.  “You’re a fine young thing, aren’t you?  Too bad your family’s locked you down.  If you weren’t warded tight as a nuclear bunker I’d be dancing the tango with _you_ not with Rhonda.”

Sam opened his mouth.  But before he could speak Dean interrupted him.  “I’m done talkin,” he said harshly.  “Abomination, you have no right to be here.  Now get out of her or I’ll _put_ you out.  ‘N’ send you to Hell for a thousand years.”  He raised his right hand to start the rite of exorcism.

The spirit laughed.  “Dean, Dean,” it said.  “Don’t you know better than that?  _You_ have no right to exorcise me.  Not anymore.”

Dean paused.

“You’re not a true hunter anymore, Dean,” it continued.  “You and Sam, you’re _also_ abominations now, I’m not the only one.  You’ve disrespected the most basic principle of the ancient agreement, that you _walk_ the _talk._   To cast the spell of purification you yourself must be pure.  Didn’t John teach you that?”

Dean was silent.  

 _“Hunting_ is supposed to uphold the divide between natural and supernatural,” the spirit said.  “So explain just how fucking your little brother like a pagan god honours _that_.  Who do you think you are, Zeus?”  It laughed again.  Then added, softly.  “You’re sullied, Dean.  The worst kind of apostate.  And if you attempt an exorcism spell…forcing me out of my nice new home…it could backfire, badly.  Your girlfriend could end up a vegetable.” 

Dean, silent. 

“At least right now she’s got _something,”_ the spirit continued _._   “And I’ll let her out to play.  Occasionally.” 

Suddenly Rhonda’s terrified face, staring at Dean.  Her lips, moving.  “Dean-“ she said.  “Help me…”

Dean sprang forward.  But then Rhonda’s true expression vanished behind a smirk.  The spirit held up a hand.  “Down boy,” it said.  “She’ll be okay with me, don’t worry.  Vessels always settle down eventually.  Once they’re resigned to their situation, that is.

“You monster,” Dean said painfully.  “You won’t get away with this.  I’m gonna trance in.  Find you on the _other_ side.  Hunt you down and _kill_ _you.”_

The spirit laughed.  “Hero Dean,” it said.  “Spirit slayer -oh yes…we know all about _you_.  You’re quite the prize, Dean Winchester _.“_   And its eyes on Dean, glowing yellow.  “To kill me you’ll have to fight me and to fight me you’ll have to _find_ me,” it said softly.   “And the spirit world is large, Dean, and a confusing place for humans.  To find me in my spirit form…I have to _want_ to be found.   And I have no interest in… _fighting_ you...either.  Face it Dean, you can’t find me and you can’t force me to fight.  You don’t know how.  You don’t have the chops.” 

“My dad does,” Dean replied.  “And Bobby.  I’ll ask _them_ to find you.  They’ll hunt your spirit ass into a _corner,_ you piece of shit.  And _then_ I’ll fight you.  And _then_ you die.”

The spirit raised its eyebrows.  “You’ll tell them whole story?” it said. 

Dean was silent.  Then said, “If I have to.”

The spirit stared at him coldly.  Raised its fingers, aiming them at its own eyes.  “I don’t need these so much,” it said.  “The pleasures of the flesh are far-reaching and I can see with other means, anyway.  You bring John Winchester or Bobby Singer to our little party Dean, and your girlfriend will be blind.  And anyway…”  In a softer tone.  “You’ll be destroying your own family, you know that, don’t you?  You try hunting me down in my own realm…I’ll broadcast that far and wide.  Exactly what’s going on and _why._   That will generate a lot of interest, Dean.  _Everyone_ will show up to see _that_ fight, it’ll be the Las Vegas heavyweight championship match of the spirit world.  And what do you think that’ll do to your _dad?_   Story like that...involving his own sons...his hunter’s rep won’t be worth _shit_  after that and that’s all he lives for, isn’t it?  And as for you -it won’t matter whether you kill me or not.  Because the supernatural will have you one way or another.  _Redress,_ remember?  You’re coming into that fight unwarded.  You’ll be damaged goods after that, even if you survive.  And Sam will be a target for the rest of his life.”  It smiled.  “You’ve been worried about Sam’s safety, haven’t you?”  Said softly, “You have no idea.”

Dean glanced at Sam, agonized.  Sam was gazing at the thing in Rhonda’s body thoughtfully.  He looked surprisingly calm.

“And all for a girl you barely know,” the spirit continued.  “Who’ll end up blind and possibly dead if you go public with your predicament.  There’s hunters out there who’ll take me down without giving a thought to my vessel.  _You_ know that…they won’t care if Rhonda survives or not.  Why…I can think of one hunter right _now_ like that.  Can’t you?”  And looking at Dean, smiling.

“Our dad would try to save her life,” Dean said.  “Don’t imply that he wouldn’t.”

“You like to think so, I know,” the spirit said _._   It shrugged.  “And maybe you’re right.  Maybe…after being dishonoured and humiliated by his own sons…seeing his golden boy dead or doomed to insanity with the _other_ one the _cause_ …John will have the heart to just keep on truckin.”

Dean closed his eyes.  Opened them again, saw the spirit watching him.  “You have no leverage, Dean,” it said quietly.  “Ask yourself…is this hunt worth ruining your dad’s life and Sam’s, to say nothing of your own?”

Dean didn’t answer.  Fighting the nausea roiling up in his stomach.

“Cheer up,” the spirit said kindly.  “Rhonda’s safe with me, all warm and cozy.  And she has a front row seat to all the lovely things I’ll be doing with her body...she won’t be bored, I can guarantee you that.”  It smiled.  “And I’ll keep your secret,” it continued.  “If you keep mine.  You can have your little brother-wife.”  And smiling.  “You’re fortunate Dean,” it continued.  “I could get all righteous with you, you know.  You’re a rogue hunter.  An apostate.  Exquisitely worthy of redress, and there are ways to break a warding spell.  I could _destroy_ you Dean, and Sam too.  But I think Rhonda here is payment enough.  So I’ll let you and your brother walk away from this.  As _civilians,_  not hunters of course, let's not push our luck.  But free and clear.  Fair trade.”

Dean was silent.  Shaking.

“...So I think we’re on the same page.” the spirit said softly after a moment.  “We’ll go our separate ways and forget this ever happened.   I’ll be discreet, I guarantee no one will notice anything different about Rhonda.  Not at first, anyway.”  It turned away, walked over to Rhonda’s bureau drawer.  “Time for work,” it said.  It was selecting clothes, holding them up to itself critically.  And it sounded just like Rhonda now.  “We don’t want be late, have Cal yell at us.  Right Dean?”  And smiled.  “Put some clothes on, pretty boy,” it said in Rhonda’s voice.

Dean stared at it.  Then turned woodenly towards his clothes.  Started getting dressed.  He didn’t look at Sam.

“Wait a minute,” Sam said.  “That’s _it?”_

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said.  He was dressed, pulling on his shoes, shoving his dirty running gear into his knapsack, zipping it up.  “We’ll talk about this later.”  Later, when Dean had time to figure out a plan.  To save Rhonda _without_ ruining their dad’s life and risking Sam’s.  Sam who’d go on, living his life, okay without Dean, Dean was counting on that.  Because regardless of what the spirit said, Dean _did_ have leverage. 

He had himself.  To trade, for Rhonda.  He knew that and so did the spirit.

Those cloudy yellow eyes on him.

 _(To find me…I have to_ want _to be found)_

 _(I have no interest in…_ fighting _you...)_

_(You’re quite the prize, Dean Winchester)_

So yeah.  At this point it was just a matter of setting up the deal.  Getting Sam somewhere safe.   Then making the trade.  Somewhere out of Sam’s sight.

“Let’s go,” Dean said to Sam.  “There’s no more reason for us to be here.  Grab your stuff.  All of it.”  He looked at the thing that had been Rhonda.  “I’ll see you later,” he said.

“I’m counting on it, pretty boy,” the spirit replied, using Rhonda’s voice.  But then it stared at Dean, smiling slightly.  Dean stared back.

The two of them standing silently, eyes locked.  The spirit’s smug smile, anticipatory.

Dean looked away.  Met Sam’s eyes.

Sam, staring at him.  Then he turned away from Dean and spoke to the spirit, who was fluffing its hair in the mirror.

“You’re very old, aren’t you?” Sam said.  His voice was respectful.

The spirit smiled at him.  “Yes child,” it said. 

“How old?” Sam asked.  “If you don’t mind me askin.”

The spirit smiled again.  “Several thousand of your lifetimes,” it said.  “I saw the pyramids rise.”

Sam looked impressed.  “Wow…that’s really somethin _,”_   he said.

“Yes,” the spirit agreed.  It was back to preening itself in the mirror.  “The last time I entered your world it didn’t have electricity,” it said.  “I must say, I’m looking forward to playing with all your new toys.”

“That’s just so cool…” Sam said.  Then added, “I find you _fascinating._   To be honest, I’m kinda jealous. _”_

The spirit paused.  Looked at Sam in the mirror.  “What are you saying, child?” it asked.

Sam, staring at it.  “What _you_ said, earlier…that you wished it was _me_ in there with you, not Rhonda…”

“SAM!” Dean said.  “Shut the fuck up!”  He grabbed Sam’s arm.  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dean said to the spirit.  Turned to Sam.  “We’re leavin NOW.  Let’s go.”

“No,” Sam said.  “I have something to say here.”

“No you don’t,” Dean said.  “You have _nothin_ to say.  Let’s go.”

“No,” the spirit said.  “I will hear Sam out.”

“No,” Dean replied.  He was dragging Sam out of the room.  “You won’t.  You’ll hear from _me._   Later.”

 _“Halt,_ boy!” the spirit said sharply.  Dean paused, turned back.  Saw the spirit standing there, fingers aimed its eyes.  “You’ve forgotten who’s calling the shots,” it said.  “Now stay put and keep your mouth shut if you want Rhonda’s sight to make it through this conversation intact.”  Added, “And take your hands off your brother.”  After a moment, Dean dropped his hands from Sam’s arms.  The spirit smiled.  “That’s it,” it said.  Then turned to Sam.  “Go on,” it said politely. 

“You could have _me,”_ Sam continued.  “Instead of Rhonda.”  And then he smiled. 

“Sam,” Dean whispered.  “No-“

Sam didn’t look at him.  He was staring at the thing in Rhonda’s body, his eyes intent. 

It looked back.  “And why would I want _that?”_ it asked.

Sam smiled.  Then approached it slowly.  Dean watched this, agonized.  “You tell me,” Sam said.  He was murmuring now.

The spirit’s eyes on him.  Dean saw it swallow.

“You thought _Rhonda_ was a treat,” Sam murmured.  “And _Dean_ …you were aimin to trade up for him, weren’t you?  Guilt him into sacrificin himself for a civilian, the hero rescuin the princess.  But you forgot about me.”  And his hands were on Rhonda’s body now, stroking it gently, the thing in Rhonda’s body turning unthinkingly towards him.  “You forgot about _me,”_ Sam murmured.

 _“Sammy,”_ the spirit whispered.   “Little baby Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured.  “Little baby me.”  And now with his arms around the spirit, whispering, “I’m right here. _Feel_ _me, spirit.”_

The thing in Rhonda’s body shuddered.  But then leaned into him, putting its face against Sam’s throat.  It gasped suddenly.  _“Oh,”_ it said.  “What’s _that?”_  And now pressed against Sam, its own arms tight around him.

“What’s what?” Sam whispered back. 

“The smell of you…the smell of your blood…under your skin…” the spirit whispered.  

“What about it?” Sam asked.

“It’s _dark,”_ the spirit whispered.  “Sam, you have the blood of a spirit in you.”  And clutching at him now, _mouthing_ him, its lips open against Sam’s throat. 

“…I _do?”_ Sam asked.   He sounded taken aback.  But also intrigued.  _Curious._   Dean closed his eyes.  Sam, curious.   Right _now,_ Jesus. 

“Yes,” the spirit said.  Its voice was shaken.  “Gods, who gave you _that_ gift?”  And nuzzling Sam luxuriously, breathing deep against his skin.  “You’re right,” it said eventually.  “We overlooked you.  Little Sammy…hidden from sight…warded from infancy, shielded by your father and then your brother…But you are indeed a prize.  A true prize.  _Oh-”_   And clutching Sam greedily, its mouth on Sam’s throat.

And Dean watched, sickened, as Sam _allowed_ this, gently holding the thing in Rhonda’s body.  “Do you want me?” Sam whispered to the spirit.

 _“Yes,”_ it replied.

“Win me then,” Sam whispered.

“How?” the spirit asked absently.  Nuzzling him. 

“Fight me,” Sam whispered.  “In your true form.  My mind against yours.  Trance me in to your world 'n' meet me there.   _Fight me,_ on spirit ground.”

 _“SAM!”_ Dean said.  “Forget it!”

Sam didn’t look at him.  Neither did the spirit.  It let go of Sam, stepped back.  Stared at him.  _“Fight you?_ ” it said.  “Child?”

“I’m no child,” Sam said calmly.  “I’m a hunter like my brother.  I’ve trained for that my whole life.”

The spirit shook its head.  “You’re a _child,”_ it said.  “You’ve never _really_ hunted.  Have you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said.  _“You’ll_ be my first hunt.”  He shrugged, smiled.  “We all have to grow up some time.”

 _“No,”_ Dean said.  “Forget it Sammy.”

“No,” the spirit said.  “Sammy, I’m not fighting you.”

“What, are you _scared?”_   Sam asked it. 

The spirit stared at him, its eyes narrowing. 

Sam smiled.  “You’re not seein the big picture,” he said.  “Think about what you’ll _get._   If you fight me ‘n’ win.”

“What will I get?” the spirit asked after a moment.

Sam smiled.  _“All_ of me,” he said.  And he was murmuring again.  “My body…welcomin you…my _mind_ …on _your_ side…a willing vessel,” he said.  “Not abducted.  Not coerced.  Not filled with hatred or fear.  Not _fighting you._   _Interested_ in you.  _Fascinated,_ by everything you are.  A _willing vessel._   Not just resigned.  _Willing.”_ He paused.   Then whispered.  “A complete surrender.  When was the last time you had _that,_ spirit _?”_

 _“_ A long time,” the spirit said.  And staring at Sam now with a terrible hunger. 

“If you win me,” Sam whispered, _“_ you’ll win _all_ of me.  A vessel _willin_ to be what you want.  _Surrendered_ to you.  And I know just how to do it.  Just ask Dean.”

The spirit glanced at Dean.  Dean saw it register the agony on his face.  It looked back at Sam, its eyes thoughtful now.  “Dean trained you well, did he?” it said.

“Oh yes,” Sam said.  “Very well.  And I’ll learn how to please _you,_ spirit.  Just like I pleased _him.”_

“To _please_ _me…”_ the spirit whispered.   

 _“Yes,”_ Sam said.  “Just think of that.  Me _pleasin you._   Like no other.  Because I _get you.”_   And staring at the spirit, unblinking.  “I _understand you,_ spirit, deep down.”  He paused.  Then said, quietly, “You know I do.  Because of my _blood.”_ And watching the spirit, watching its expression break open.  _“You_ _know,”_ Sam whispered.

“Yes,” the spirit whispered back.  Sam smiled slightly.  “My dark blood…” he said, and Dean saw the spirit’s nostrils flare, “…will be all _yours,”_ Sam said.  He was murmuring again.

 _“Mine…”_ the spirit replied.  And its eyes on Sam, soft now.  And reaching up to touch Sam’s cheek, touching him so tenderly, like Sam was precious and Dean watching this, his heart hurting.  “Child, you frighten me,” the spirit said.

Sam smiled.  “All part of pleasing you,” he said.

 _“Child…”_ the spirit said.  Its eyes on Sam, raw.

“So do you want me?” Sam asked it quietly. 

 _“Yes,”_ the spirit said.  And touching Sam again, eagerly, hungrily, stroking its hands over Sam’s skin.

“Then win me,” Sam said.  And whispered.   _"Fight me.”_

The spirit stopped stroking him.  It stepped back, staring.  Sam gazed at it calmly. 

Silence.  And then the spirit’s voice. 

“I will fight you,” it said. 

And its voice had changed again.  No longer the mockery of Rhonda’s voice, or the rough and jaded voice that sounded like some cynical old man.  A voice no longer old sounding, or young.  An ageless voice, dark and clear.  The spirit’s true voice.  No more games. 

“Name your terms,” the spirit said.

“Rhonda goes free,” Sam said.  “Regardless if I win or lose.”

“Fine,” the spirit said.  “Rhonda goes free.”

“Regardless if I win or lose,” Sam repeated.

The spirit looked at him.  “Regardless if you win or lose,” it said.  

“And she’s protected,” Sam said.  “You’ll make it so she’s never be bothered by the supernatural again.  For the rest of her life.”

“She’ll be protected,” the spirit said.  “I’ll see to it that she’s left alone by our kind for the rest of her life.”

“I have your word,” Sam said. 

 _“Yes_ child, you have my word,” the spirit said, rather impatiently.  “A spirit’s word once spoken can’t be broken, as I’m sure you know already.  Don’t be a brat.”

Dean snorted, he couldn’t help it.

Sam glanced at him briefly.   “And Dean,” he said.  “Dean walks away from this, like you said earlier.   _And_ he still hunts.  Regardless if I win or lose.”

The spirit hesitated.  “No,” it said.  “I can’t agree to that.  Dean dishonoured the agreement.  He’s an outlaw, not a hunter.  Dean may go his way as a civilian but if he hunts, he’s subject to redress.”

 _“You_ broke the agreement too,” Sam said.  “Possessin Rhonda without her permission.  _You’re_ an outlaw too.  And _also_ subject to redress.”

The spirit looked at him.  “What’s your point?” it asked.

“Quid pro quo,” Sam said.  _“That’s_ my point.  _We_ forget about Rhonda and _you_ forget about _us._   As far as you’re concerned, Dean ‘n’ me are just brothers.  And Dean hunts.  You’ll see that he’s able to do that.”

“Oh I will, will I?” the spirit asked him.  Scarcastically.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “You’ll look out for him.  That’s _my_ price for lettin you survive.  Once I beat you.”

The spirit laughed.  It turned to Dean.  “He’s a quite the little negotiator isn’t he?”

Dean opened his mouth.  Closed it, clamping down on the useless, dangerous words rising up in him like lava.  He didn’t answer.

The spirit turned back to Sam.  “And in the unlikely circumstance of you _winning_ our little contest… _”_ it said.  “Do I look out for you _too,_ Sammy?”

“Of course,” Sam said.  “If I win, I’ll be with Dean.”

“You will, will you?” the spirit said.

Sam shrugged.  “Yes.”

“Consider your words carefully Samuel,” the spirit said.  “You’re in _my_ territory now.  Your words bind you.”

Sam watched the spirit calmly.  He didn’t answer.

The spirit waited.  Laughed softly.  “So I become your pet spirit,” it said.  “Yours _and_ Dean’s.  _That’s_ your win.”

Sam nodded.  “Yup,” he said.  “Quid pro quo.  If I cooperate, you cooperate.  And think of it more like…you become our ally on the other side.  Steppin in if Dean or I need a hand.  You know…with spells and such.  Givin us a boost.”

“And maintaining your cover,” the spirit said.  “That you’re hunters and not apostates.”

“Pretty much,” Sam said.  “And with your help we’ll be the best hunters out there.”

“That’s quite a win, child,” the spirit said.  But it was smiling, reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “But think of the _prize.”_

The spirit’s eyes on him.  It wasn’t smiling now.  “You’re sure you’ll win, aren’t you?” it said. 

“No,” Sam said.  “I’m not sure at all.  And _that’s_ why I need your promise.  That Dean hunts.  Regardless.  With or without me.”

“Dean could decide to hunt me down,” the spirit said.  “Hunt _us_ down if you end up with me and not with him.”

Sam glanced at Dean.  Met his eyes.  Dean stared.  Sam was trying to communicate something to him.  What was it?  But now Sam’s eyes, back on the spirit.

“He could,” Sam said calmly.  “If he thinks you’re bein bad to me.”

The spirit laughed.  “Child, you are a prize like no other.”  It was silent.  Then said, “Very well.  I accept your terms.”

“Say them,” Sam said.

The spirit looked at him.  Then said, “Dean hunts.  Regardless of who wins.  With or without you.  I will keep his secret and yours.  And I will help him, if called upon.”

“And,” Sam said.

“…And if _you_ win,” the spirit said, “I will keep your secret.  Yours and Dean’s.  And I will help you, if called upon.”

“Thank you,” Sam said.

“You’re welcome,” the spirit said.  Dryly.  But then said, “And now it’s _your_ turn,  Samuel Winchester, son of John.  Say your words.”

Sam looked it in the eye.  “If you win…I will be yours,” he said.  “Willingly.” 

“A full surrender,” the spirit said.  “To _me.”_

“Yes,” Sam said.  “Say it,” the spirit said.  “A full surrender,” Sam repeated.  “To _you.”_   Dean shut his eyes briefly.

“Aaaah…” the spirit said.  It was smiling.   “Thank you, Sam.” 

“Uh huh,” Sam replied.

The spirit held out a hand to him.  “Very well then, child.  Time to trance in.  And meet me, on the other side.”

Sam stepped forward, his own hand outstretched.

Dean stepped between them.  “No,” he said. 

The spirit turned on him.  “Get out of the way,” it said.  “It’s too late Dean.  Sam’s made you irrelevant.”

“I wasn’t talkin to _you,_ asshole,” Dean said tightly.  Looked at Sam.  “Sam, you’re forgettin somethin.  Somethin that spirit’s _not_ sayin.”

“It’s too late,” Sam said.  “Everything’s said that needs to be said.”

“No!” Dean said.  “Sam, listen.  You go onto supernatural ground…unwarded…to fight that thing…you’ll be subject to redress.  Just like I would.  The spirits will come after you…come after your _mind,_ that’s _their_ hunt, remember?  The other side’ll _have_ you, Sammy, whether you win this fight or not.  Why do you think this asshole is bein so agreeable?  It wants to get you over there.  _Think,_ Sammy.”

Sam looked at him.  Tears were in his eyes.  He looked very young, suddenly.  “I have,” Sam said.  “Like I said, it’s too late.”

“It’s not!” Dean said.

“It is,” Sam said.  “This whole thing was my fault.  I have to make it right.”

“Sam…no,” Dean said.  “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.  “But Rhonda…you…even _Dad_ …all of you being _ruined_ …because of me…I can’t live with that, Dean.  You gotta understand that.”

“Sam…” Dean whispered.   He could barely speak, pain was taking him over.  “Please…you don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Sam said.  “I’m sorry.”  His arms around Dean now.  “I love you,” he whispered against Dean’s lips.  “Kiss me.”

Dean was crying.  “Sammy,” he said.  “Please.  Don’t.”

“I have to,” Sam whispered.   “Please Dean.  Wish me luck.”

Dean’s arms were around Sam’s waist, his face buried in Sam’s hair.  No.  He wasn’t letting Sam go, not Sam, not his brother, Sammy would not leave him, disappearing into darkness...

But.

_(I have to make it right)_

Sam was a hunter too.  Dean had raised him to be that.

_(You gotta understand that)_

And Dean did.  He understood how Sam felt.  Exactly.

_(I can’t live with that)_

And with new pain, bright red and raw, Dean understood.   Just what he’d raised.  Exactly.

 _(Their dad’s cold voice. ”It’s time he understands the_ real _consequences, Dean” and Sammy shaking with fearful defiance and Dean frantically trying to respond to this, to manage it, to do the right thing, whatever it was, that would allow their family to go on- )_

The hunter’s way.  Teaching Sam that.  Such painful lessons, back and back through memory.  And Sam learning them, bitterly.  But now accepting them.

_(I have to.  Please Dean)_

Dean raised his head, looked into Sam’s face.  His brother gazed back at him, tears still in his eyes but calm now.  No longer so young looking. 

Sam not a child anymore.

“You’ll come back to me,” Dean said.  He could barely speak.  “Promise.”  And aware, through agony, of his hands on Sam’s body, clasping him, stroking over him.

Recording, the feel of him.

“You might not want what comes back,” Sam said.  He shrugged, smiled.  “Sam, post-redress,” he said.  “Won’t be pretty.” 

“I _will,_ ” Dean said.  “I will and you _hold on to that,_ Sammy.   You’re _mine,_ always.  The supernatural won’t change that.  It’ll _never_ have you.  Not the real you.  I won’t let it Sammy.  And you won’t either.”

“I think it has me already,” Sam said.  His voice was sad.  “My _blood,_ remember?  I’ve always felt like a freak, Dean.  Well maybe that’s why.”

Dean felt a chill.  He remembered Sam’s eyes on him, earlier, black as space.  And that spirit clutching at Sam like a prize, its greedy voice.

_Your blood, it’s_

dark.

Dean shivered.  But then he…thought about that.

“Your blood…” he said.  “Your _blood,_ Sammy…”

“What about it,” Sam said.  He sounded tired now.  Ready to get this over with.

“Listen,” Dean said.  “Your blood will protect you.  Over there.”

“Dean,” the spirit said sharply.  “You have no idea what you’re saying.  Don’t speak beyond your place.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Dean snapped.  A crazy hope was rising in him.  He took Sam by the shoulders and shook him.  “Sam listen.  You’re fightin that thing on _your_ ground.”

“What?” Sam said.  “What do you mean?”

“Dean!” the spirit snapped.  “You’re just entertaining your own desperation.  Don’t tease your brother in his last minutes of life.  Allow him to say his goodbyes to you gracefully.”

“I know what I’m sayin,” Dean said to it, coldly.  “And so do you.  Sam, listen,” he said.  “That thing said you had spirit blood in you.  Now I don’t understand how somethin like that could even happen, but spirits don’t lie.  They’re assholes, but they don’t lie.  They can’t.”

“So…that means I’m like a spirit,” Sam said.  Sadly.  “I’m like _them.”_

Dean shook him.  “You’re _not_ like them,” he said.  “Don’t misunderstand me.  But that blood…maybe that’s your green card, Sammy.  To supernatural territory.  You’re not an _apostate!_   You’re not _trespassin!_ You have rights over there.”

“…Rights?” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean said.   “You go onto spirit ground…smellin of spirit blood…the supernatural’s not gonna have an issue with you.  Cause you _belong there,_ see?  You’re just comin back to the ranch.”

“Belong there,” Sam said.  “Like I never belonged _here.”_

Dean felt his expression twist.  “Sammy that’s not true,” he said.  “You _do_ belong here.  With _me._   But don’t you see?  That blood’ll _save_ you.  You c’n fight this asshole and come _back._   All in one piece.  No redress.  Spirits aren’t gonna exercise that against their own _blood._   Right?  You’ll be okay.  You’ll come back to me… _okay!”_

“I’ll be…okay,” Sam repeated.  And now Dean saw hope rising in him too.  Sam’s eyes, shining suddenly.

“Don’t deceive yourself, Dean,” the spirit said.  “Sam’s not coming back to you.  He’s a _child_ not a hunter…and calling what will happen between he and I a _fight…_ that’s just a courtesy.  Sam’s not coming to fight me…he’s coming to _join_ me.  He wants to.  I’m _fascinating,_ remember?   And it’s for the best, really.  He’s right in his assertion that he doesn’t belong here.  That dark gift he carries –it will forever taint him.  He’s been separated from the rest of humankind…and he knows it, deep down.  Sam’s just being tactful with you, Dean, pretending he intends to return _._   So you won’t fall apart.   So you’ll remember him with love.”

“Don’t listen to it, Sam,” Dean said.  “It _wants_ you goin into that fight expectin to lose.”

Sam stared at the spirit.  “I’ll win,” he said.  “And I’ll come back.  You’re wrong.”

The spirit smiled.  “We’ll see,” it said.  “Do you really _want_ to come back, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t answer.  Dean suddenly felt cold again.  “Sam,” he said.  “You’ll win.  And you’ll come back to me.”

Sam’s eyes turned to him.  “Dean,” he said after a moment.  “Do you love me?”

Dean felt tears rising again.  “Sammy,” he said.   “How c’n you even _ask_ that?”

“Because…” Sam hesitated.  Then said, “Dean, what am I coming back to?”

“…What?” Dean asked.

“What am I coming back to?” Sam repeated.  And his voice trembled suddenly.  “What _are_ you to me Dean?” 

What are you to me.

“Everythin!” Dean said.  He was crying.  “I’m everythin.  Everything, to you.  Everything that you _want,_ Sammy!  Right here.”

“Everything…” Sam repeated.  Dean couldn’t tell whether he was questioning this or agreeing with it.

 _“Yes,”_ Dean said.  And the sound of his own voice, his heart breaking in it.  “Everything that you want.   Sammy don’t you listen to that thing!  You go in there _plannin to come back!_   _Promise me!”_

Sam didn’t seem to hear this.  “Everything,” he said again.  And he looked at Dean suddenly.

That look…that _Sammy_ look, like his brother’s brain had just kicked into high gear.  Jesus.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “Please…”

“You’re everything…that I want,” Sam said, thoughtfully.  He seemed to be considering every word. 

What was there to _think_ about, here?  This was maddening.

 _“Yes!”_ Dean said.

“Say that again,” Sam said, after a moment.  “The way I would.”

Dean didn’t understand right away.  But then he got it.

“Yes Sammy,” he said.  And he saw Sam’s eyes light up.

“You promise?” Sam asked. 

“I promise.” Dean replied.  Sam smiled.

Dean saw this through a wash of tears.  I mean…this wasn’t funny.  “Just come back to me,” he whispered.  “Please Sammy.”

“So if I come back…it’s to… _everything?”_ Sam asked.  Like he was trying to clarify something.  But Dean didn’t notice that.

_If._

“Don’t you fuckin _say_ that!” Dean shouted at him.  “Of course you’re comin back! _”_

“To… _everything,”_ Sam said.   And Dean saw suddenly, how Sam was looking at him.  His eyes fixed on Dean, unblinking. 

“Yes,” Dean whispered.  The sting of tears on his cheeks.  He was falling apart here and Sam was just _watching_ him, like a cat watching a mouse. 

“Say that again,” Sam said.

“Yes Sammy,” Dean whispered.

“All mine,” Sam said.  And his eyes, suddenly golden. 

“All yours,” Dean said.  He was shaking. 

“You promise,” Sam said again.    

“I promise,” Dean replied.   

Sam, gazing at him.  Then smiling again.

But a sweet smile this time.  The way Dean remembered Sammy smiling at him when he was little, usually when Dean had just finished doing something for him.

_(“C’n I have the Lucky Charms, Dean?”_

_“Sure, Sammy”)_

And now gazing at Dean with that same sweet smile.  The smile of someone who knew they’d just been given something precious.

_(Do you love me?)_

Dean felt calm suddenly.   

“I’m yours Sammy,” he said.  And no longer speaking through tears.  “Just come back to me.”

Sam didn’t answer.  He gazed at Dean silently, his smile fading.

Silence, descending.  Dean felt it surround the two of them, this sudden presence of silence, surrounding them, spreading out from them like a lake. 

But then he heard something.  An echo in that silence.  Of earlier words, not soft, not calm. 

Hard words, so many of them between him and Sam.  Harsh, bitter, frustrated words, spoken to wound, echoing back and back.  Rising in anger and left there. 

But now collected gently, into this new silence.

“I love you Sam,” Dean said.  And saw his brother’s eyes on him, warm and gold like dark honey.

That dark warm gaze on him, a sudden heat on Dean’s skin.  And an echo of other words now.

_(All mine)_

Sam was quiet.  For a moment he looked like he was about to answer.  But then he looked away.  And turned toward the spirit who was standing there, motionless.  “Is our deal still on?” Sam asked it, politely.

“Yes,” it said after a moment.

“Still want me, huh?” Sam said.  And now he sounded cheerful.  Almost lighthearted.

“Yes,” the spirit said.  Added, “You hellborn spawn.”

Sam laughed.  Then said, “So let's get on with it then.”  He looked at the spirit.  “Time to meet me on the other side,” he said softly.  “Time to _fight.”_

The spirit held out its hand.  “I’m going to lift the warding,” it said.  “Then trance you in.  Repeat my words.”

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Just let me kiss my brother first.”  He turned back to Dean.  Put his arms around him, kissed Dean tenderly on the lips.  Gazed at him. 

“I’m holdin you to your promise,” Sam said. 

“I know,” Dean whispered.  He was crying again.  “Sammy, please tell me you’re comin back.”

Sam smiled.  “I’m comin back,” he said.  “I promise.”   

Said, “I love you, Dean.”

Then he turned, held out a hand to the spirit.  And Dean saw Sam’s eyes in that last moment, bright with anticipation.  _Curious._

“Give me the words,” Sam said.  “I’m ready.”

***

The sound of tears.

At first Dean thought it was him, but then realized it was Rhonda.  He looked up from where he’d been kneeling over Sam’s body.

Rhonda was crouched beside him, crying.  “Dean?” she asked.  “What’s wrong with Sam?”

“Rhonda,” Dean said.  “Is that you?”

She looked at him.  “What?”

“Are you…” Dean stopped.   Her eyes on him, a clear amber.  “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

She was back to staring at Sam, lying there pale and still.  “No,” she whispered.  “I mean, I remember Sam hitting you…and then trying to _strangle_ you and then-“ she paused, “-and I was screaming...”  She was crying again.  “Dean,” she whispered.  “What did I see?  _What happened?”_

“Rhonda,” Dean said.  “I’m gonna say somethin very important to you.  Okay?”

“What?” Rhonda said.

“You didn’t see anythin,” Dean said.   “Nothin.  Got it?”

Rhonda, staring at him.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Dean said, “That dependin on what you _think_ you saw…our lives could depend on it.  Yours, Sam’s and mine.”

Rhonda staring at him, her eyes sharpening.  “Why?”

“Because somethin happened…that wasn’t supposed to happen,” Dean said.  “Happened because of _us,_ what me ‘n’ Sam ‘n’ you were doin together.  And there’s people out there who’d have a real issue with that.”

“It’s nobody’s business but ours, what we were doing,” Rhonda said after a moment.  “It _was_ kind of weird, but we weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“That’s true,” Dean said.  “But then Sam ‘n’ me…we made a mistake.”

“…Which was?” Rhonda asked. 

“We were careless,” Dean said.  “Created a situation that should never have happened.  But Sam’s made it right.”  He felt tears suddenly rising again.   “He’s gone in there and…made it right,” he said quietly.   He shut his eyes.

Rhonda’s voice.  “I don’t…gone in _where?_   Dean, what are you _talking about?”_  

“You’re back,” Dean whispered.  He hadn’t opened his eyes.  “And now Sam’s fightin for his life.”

“How’s he- ” Rhonda began.  But then she stopped talking.  A short silence.  And then Rhonda’s voice, sounding frightened.   “Dean…Sam’s so pale...it doesn’t look right…he should go to the hospital!” 

Dean opened his eyes.  Rhonda was staring at Sam, looking aghast.  Dean turned to look at him too, observed Sam’s white face.  He turned away.   He wasn’t going to fall apart, he’d done enough of that already.  And Sam was counting on him now.  “No,” Dean said.  “Sam’s in a deep trance.  Some doctor messin with him’s about the worst thing that could happen.”

“What do you _mean?”_ Rhonda asked.  Her voice was shrill with anger and distress.

“I mean…he loses his focus in there…for one second…he’s gonna end up possessed,” Dean said.   “That spirit’ll have him.  And there’s nothin me or anyone else c’n do for him after that.  Because of their deal.”

“I don’t understand,” Rhonda said.  “What deal?”

“The deal Sam made,” Dean said.  “To get you back.  He said if the spirit agreed to fight him on the other side…and it won…he’d be its willing vessel.  Sam pledged that.  And the spirit pledged back.  To let you go.  And…other stuff.  Anyhow, they made a deal and the spirit’s clearly honoured the first part of it.  You’re back, right?  No exorcism spell will work on Sam now.”

“Dean…you’re not making any sense,” Rhonda said.  “Have you gone completely crazy?  _Exorcism?_   Making _deals?_   What the fuck!  Sam looks like he’s in a _coma…_ you need to get him to a hospital, _NOW!”_

“No,” Dean said.  “Rhonda, listen to me-“

“-Fine,” Rhonda interrupted.  Her voice was hard.  “Then I _will!”_ She stood up.

Dean stood up too, grabbed her arms.  “No!” he said.  “Rhonda, look.  No one can help Sam now.  And if you interfere…take this situation outa my hands…put it out there on the radar…and Sam ends up possessed…hunters will go after him.  And if they can’t exorcise him they’ll just _kill_ him, Rhonda.  Get rid of the spirit by killin its vessel.  Sam could end up salted and burned.  And I’d be dead, because to do that, they’d have to go through me.  And then my dad would…it’d be a war.  And at that point I honestly don’t know what would happen to you.  Once other hunters found out about you…that rogue hunter’s chick who was part of this whole mess…they sure wouldn’t forget you, not a girl who looks like _you._   And not everyone’s a boyscout.”

Rhonda didn’t look impressed.  _“Hunters?”_ she said.  She stood tensely under Dean’s hands.  Either waiting for an explanation or an opportunity to leap away.  And run for help.

“I can’t explain,” Dean said.  “It’s a long story and you shouldn’t be hearin it anyway.  You shouldn’t’ve been involved in _any_ of this and it was my fault…for tryin to make Sam happy…givin in to him…when I knew better…” he was blinking back tears again. 

“Dean,” Rhonda said.  Her voice was calm now.  “Look at your brother.  His lips are blue.  Are you telling me you’re just going to stand there and _let that go on?”_

Dean turned towards Sam, still keeping a tight grip on Rhonda’s arms.  He felt a thud of fear as he took in Sam’s face.  Rhonda hadn’t been exaggerating.

And Dean realized something.  He _wasn’t_  just going to stand there.  He was going in.  After Sam, to get him back.  But he couldn’t do that by himself.

“I’m takin him to Bobby’s,” Dean said.  “He’ll help us.”

 _“Who?”_ Rhonda asked.  “Is Bobby a _doctor?_   Dean, tell me you’re coming to your senses!”

Dean looked at her.  Rhonda’s clear eyes on him, intelligent, concerned, her stunning face, so heartbreakingly pretty, her strong slim body like a coiled spring under Dean’s hands and that sharp tongue, fearless.  “You’re gonna have a good life,” he said.

Rhonda stared at him.  _“What?”_ she said.

“You gonna have a good life,” Dean said.  “You’re goin to go on…go to college…become a doctor like you wanted…get married…have a family…”

Rhonda was crying now.  “Dean,” she whispered.  “What are you saying to me?”

“You’re goin to go on,” Dean said.  “You’re gonna be okay.  Sam saw to that.”

“Well, what about _you?”_ Rhonda asked him.  And crying.  “And _Sam?”_

“I’ll look after Sam, don’t worry,” Dean said.  “He wouldn’t want you worryin about him, Rhonda.”

“Are you taking him to a doctor?” Rhonda whispered. 

“…Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m taking him to a doctor.  A, um, _specialist_ I know, who’ll know what to do.  But we gotta leave now.  C’n you get Sam’s stuff?  I’m gonna take him down to the car.”  And he was kneeling over Sam’s body, lifting his brother into his arms.

Rhonda had opened Sam’s knapsack.  She was stuffing his pajamas into it.  “He’ll want these,” she said.  “When he wakes up.  And here’s the book he was reading- “ suddenly she stopped talking.  Dean glanced at her.  She was crouched over Sam’s knapsack, a letter in her hand.  Staring at it, crying.

“What is it?” Dean said.  Impatiently now.  “We gotta _go.”_

“His SAT scores,” Rhonda whispered.  “He must’ve written the SAT early.  He got his scores back.  _That’s_ what he came back here for, he wanted to show you.”

Dean had turned away.  He was lifting Sam carefully.  “I wish he hadn’t,” he said. 

“With _these_ scores he’d get early acceptance,” Rhonda said.  “He’d be accepted by any college in the country.  Oh, Dean-“

“It doesn’t matter now,” Dean said harshly.  “Rhonda, we gotta go.”  And leaving her bedroom, carrying Sam down the stairs.

Now at the car, Sam strapped into the shotgun seat, his head leaning back lifelessly.  Dean slamming the passenger side door, turning, almost walking into Rhonda who was standing right behind him.  She was holding Sam’s knapsack.  Dean took it from her.

“Listen,” he said.  “Someone might come around.  This old guy, late forties, has a beard and he’ll be wearin a baseball cap that looks like a truck drove over it.  But he’s fine, he’s cool okay?  If he shows up, he’s comin from me.  He’ll tell you that.  He might…um…throw water on you, but don’t freak out, okay?  He’ll be there because I asked him to make sure you’re okay.  If things don’t work out for me ‘n’ Sam.”

“What?  Rhonda said.   “Why’re you talking like you’re leaving me behind?  I’m coming with you!”  She turned to open the back passenger seat door.

Dean grabbed her arm.  “No,” he said.  “You’re not.”

Rhonda staring up at him, tears glimmering in her eyes again.  “Dean,” she whispered.  “C’mon…you’re just _leaving?_   Just like that?  Just _leaving me?_   I want to come with you!”

“No,” Dean said.  “You don’t.  You really don’t Rhonda, I know that much about you.  Where I’m goin …you don’t want to be along for that.”

“I do, though,” she whispered.   “I want to come with you.  Dean, please-“

Dean shook his head.  “No,” he said, “Rhonda, look.  You’ve got your plans, you’ve got a good life ahead of you.  You go ahead ‘n’ get on with it, just forget about me ‘n’ Sam.”

“How can you ask that of me?” Rhonda said.  She was crying.

“I’ve gotta ask,” Dean said.  “I’m sorry.  But Rhonda, you’ve gotta forget about us.  For your own good.  And for _our_ good.  And you’ve gotta forget about _anything_ you saw back there.  Okay?  Please.”

Rhonda looking at him.  “What _did_ I see?” she asked after a moment.  “What _happened,_ Dean?  It’s like I blacked out for a moment.  But before that I saw Sam ki-“

Dean put a hand over her mouth.  “You didn’t see anythin,” he said harshly.  “Nothin.  You want Sam to live his life Rhonda, you saw never _anythin_ , and you never _tell_ anyone you saw anythin.  Got it?  Not even Bo- , not even the guy who might come around.   Even if he asks you about that.  You keep your silence about that.  Understand?  Promise me.”

Rhonda looked at him.

“Please,” Dean said.  “Promise me.”

“What is Sam to you?” Rhonda asked him.  She wasn’t crying now.

Dean hesitated.  Then said, “He’s everythin.  Everything.  To me.”  He looked at Rhonda again.

She looked back.  “I promise,” she said after a moment.  “I won’t say anything.  And if anyone asks about…anything…I’ll pretend I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Dean felt a wash of relief run through him, even in his extreme distress.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Thank you.  I mean it.”  And now walking around to the trunk, tossing his and Sam’s knapsacks in.  Slamming the trunk door, walking around to the driver’s side.  Rhonda had followed him.

“Dean,” she said.  “Will I see you again?”

“Maybe,” Dean said.  Then said, “I dunno.”

“Dean please,” Rhonda said.  She was crying again.  “I need to know you and Sam are okay.”

“We’ll be okay,” Dean said.  He smiled at her briefly. 

She didn’t smile back.  “You’re just saying that,” she said.  “Aren’t you?  You don’t really know.”

Dean sighed.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t.  But I gotta believe we’ll be okay.  Okay?  I gotta go now, Rhonda.”

She was crying.  “Promise me,” she said.  “That you’ll let me know.  Don’t leave me wondering.  That’s too cruel, Dean.”

“I promise,” Dean said.  He felt sad.  He hadn’t wanted to hurt this girl, he’d wanted things to be different.  But somehow…it had still ended up that way.

“I’ll miss you,” Rhonda whispered.  Tears were streaming from her eyes.

“I’ll miss you too,” Dean said.  And he realized that he meant it.  He’d miss her and he’d miss her and him and Sam all hanging out, their rowdy, cheerful threesome.  And he’d miss the taste of life he’d had here, these long months in one place, working a regular job, seeing Sam being a normal teenage kid for once, Sam’s eyes so happy.  And Dean had been _happy_ seeing that, he’d been…happy. 

He’d been happy here, too.  

Happy to have this (kind of) normal life, this _gift_ that Sam had given him.  That he’d insisted Dean experience.  Enjoy, right up until the end.

Sam giving that to him, and now possibly paying for it with his own life.

Dean looked down at Rhonda, into those tearful, weird colour eyes so much like his brother’s.  “I’ll miss you too,” he said gently.  He bent forward and kissed her.  “Goodbye,” he said.  “Take care of yourself.  Take care of your mom.  Have a good life, Rhonda.”

She was crying helplessly.  “Dean-“

But he’d turned away, he was in the car.

And now driving away, Rhonda just a reflection in the rearview mirror.  Dean glanced at Sam beside him, his brother deathly pale but breathing, still breathing, thank God thank God. 

And now heading towards the highway and Bobby, towards the _(darkness, waiting)_ reckoning there, towards whatever it took for Sam to survive this and come back.

Come back to him.

 

 


	46. Chapter 46

Aaron hadn’t been pleased when Sam told him about Rhonda. 

Sam had held off telling him for awhile.  I mean…he _knew_ that Aaron wouldn’t be pleased.  And also…Rhonda was complicated, okay?  I mean, she wasn’t just Sam’s girlfriend, she was Dean’s girlfriend too.  And that was pretty weird, Sam got that.  And Aaron already thought that Sam’s relationship with Dean was weird (and to be fair, he wasn’t wrong and Dean had given Aaron good reason to think that too…and of course, Aaron didn’t even know the _half_ of it).  But Sam didn’t need to hear about all of that again, okay?  He knew his situation with Dean was weird.    _Fucked up,_ even, shall we say.

No one knew that better than him.

But eventually he did tell Aaron about Rhonda. 

Because…he was happy about her.  Okay?  He felt _good_ about the whole thing.  Scoring a girlfriend, especially one as awesome as Rhonda, that was something to be proud of.   Trouble was, Rhonda was only Sam’s girlfriend in secret and _Dean’s_ girlfriend to the rest of the world.

Story of Sam’s life.  Yet another secret.  And that kind of sucked.  I mean, Sam wanted to tell _somebody._   And that left Aaron, who was conveniently located hundreds of miles away.

So he broke the news, on one of their Wednesday afternoon phone calls.

“Say…guess what,” Sam began, interrupting  Aaron’s diatribe about last Sunday’s wrestling meet.

“What,” Aaron said absently.

“I have a girlfriend,” Sam said.

Silence.

“You _what?”_ Aaron said.   Not sounding pleased.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “She’s really cool.  You’d like her.”

Silence.

“Her name’s Rhonda,” Sam continued tentatively.  And waited.

“…So when did _that_ happen?” Aaron asked after another pause.  “You never told me you even _liked_ anybody.”

“Um…about three weeks ago?” Sam said. 

Silence.  Then Aaron, taking an audible breath. 

“Three _weeks ago?”_ he said.

“...Yeah…?” Sam said.

“So why didn’t I hear about this _three weeks ago?”_   Aaron asked.  And now he sounded all huffy.  Like he was entitled to every little bit of information about Sam’s life.  Just like…you know… _someone else_ in Sam’s life _.  Sam_ was annoyed now.

“I dunno,” Sam replied shortly.  “Guess I wasn’t ready to talk about it.  Still gettin my head around it.  You sorry I told you?”

“…No,” Aaron said.  Then added.  “I guess.”

Sam sighed.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” he said, more mildly.

“Okay,” Aaron replied after a moment.  Another silence.  Then, “So what’s she like?”

“She’s awesome,” Sam said.  “Super hot.  She’s a competitive runner, got this great, tight bod.  ‘N’ she’s older than me too…like _nineteen._ And she’s smart, goin into pre-med at Columbia in September.  She seriously knows her shit.  And she’s got this like, _house_ I’ve been hanging out in whenever her mom’s at work.  It’s been great.”

 _“Nineteen?”_ Aaron said.  “How’d you meet her?”

“She works at the diner,” Sam said.  “She’s a waitress there.”

“Um, okay…” Aaron said.  Then said, “But I don’t get it, Sam.  Aren’t you, you know…”  He paused again.

“Gay?” Sam said.  He was grinning.

“Well…yeah,” Aaron said.

“I like girls too,” Sam said.  “I always have.”

Aaron snorted.  “I _know,”_ he said.  “I just didn’t know you liked them like _that.”_

“Fuck off,” Sam said.  “Why’s me likin girls such a shock?”

“Cause you never said anything about it before,” Aaron said.  “And anyway, let’s say…you kinda gave me the opposite impression.”

 _“Impressions_ don’t necessarily mean anything,” Sam said.  Aaron was quiet. 

“I mean…who went out with _Michelle_ for like, four years?” Sam added.

“That’s different,” Aaron said.  “And it was only three and a half years anyway.”

“Okay, three and a half years,” Sam said.  “So how’s that so different?  You _liked_ Michelle, didn’t you?  You must’ve.”

“Yeah…I did,” Aaron said.  “But I’m…well…”

“More _manly_ than me?” Sam said.   He was grinning again.

“Fuck off,” Aaron said.   “The last time I saw you, you were dressed as a _girl,_ remember?   What am I supposed to think?”

“That I’m _flexible,”_ Sam said.   “Nothin’s stoppin me from liking girls.”  Aaron didn’t answer.  After a moment Sam added,  “You know…I kind of liked Carla.”

“You _did?_ ” Aaron said.   He didn’t sound particularly pleased about this either.

“Yeah,” Sam said. 

“I think she liked you too,” Aaron said after a moment.  “She’s always bringin your name up.”

“Did you tell her we’re still talkin?” Sam asked.

“No,” Aaron said. 

“Why not?” Sam asked.

“Cause…I dunno,” Aaron said. 

Sam waited.

Silence.

“Cause I’m your little secret,” Sam said.  He wasn’t smiling now.

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  His voice was deeper suddenly.  “Pretty much.”

Sam blinked.  A warm thrill had unexpectedly shot through him. 

Aaron.  They were just friends.  Nothing else.  Sam had made that pretty clear when he’d discouraged Aaron from visiting him and Aaron had never mentioned it again.   But there was something about Aaron that got Sam going, he couldn’t deny it.  In spite of Rhonda.  In spite of _Dean._

 _(And what did that say about Sam, that Aaron had this effect on him whenever Aaron got like, well you know…strong.  I mean after all, Aaron wasn’t_ Dean _)._

“It’s not _me_ that’s your secret,” Sam said to Aaron, rather coldly.  “It’s _you_ that’s your secret.”

Silence.

“So…Rhonda…works in the same place as you ‘n’ Dean?” Aaron said after a pause.

“Not to change the subject or anythin,” Sam said.

Silence.

Sam sighed.  Aaron.  Sometimes conversations with him were tough going.  Good thing Sam was up for it.  Like, from _years_ of practice.  

“Yeah,” Sam said mildly.  “She does.”

“So…don’t take this the wrong way but…why’s she dating _you?”_   Aaron asked.  “I mean…she’s _Dean’s_ age, isn’t she?  And you know, Dean…well…he’s…um…”

Sam was grinning again.  “Smokin hot?” he said. 

Aaron didn’t reply.

“In a different league from little ol’ me?” Sam added helpfully.

“I didn’t say that,” Aaron said. 

“You didn’t have to,” Sam said.  “Dean’s in a different league from _everybody._ I get it.”

“I just figured…” Aaron said.  And paused.

“That if there was a choice between Dean ‘n’ me, it wouldn’t exactly be a _choice,_ is that it?”  Sam said.

Aaron laughed.  “Not for a _girl,_ anyway,” he said.   And his voice was deeper again.  Sam blinked.  Another one of those thrills running through him.

“I mean, I _saw_ the way the girls were around him,” Aaron continued.  “Even Michelle.”

“Well…um…Dean’s datin Rhonda too,” Sam said.  And then he bit the inside of his cheek.

Silence.

“You _serious?”_   Aaron said.  And now his voice was higher by about an octave

“Yeah,” Sam said.   He was trying not to laugh.

“Um…” Aaron said.  Then said, “How’d the fuck _that_ happen?”

“She _did_ like Dean first,” Sam said.  “But then she started likin _me…_ ’n’ at that point I was likin her _back_ …but then _Dean_ started finally likin her…so then I thought…well, maybe we could _share_ her…”

Silence.

“Not at the same _time,_ of course,” Sam added.  “We take turns.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Aaron said after a moment.

“Uh huh,” Sam said.

“You ‘n’ your brother are the weirdest fuckin dudes on the _planet,”_ Aaron said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I know.  Trust me.”

“So how’s _Rhonda_ with all that?” Aaron asked.  “She freaked out at all?”

“No actually, she’s cool with it,” Sam said.  “As I said – she’s awesome.”

“So…you’re… _fuckin_ her, huh?” Aaron said thoughtfully.

Sam was grinning.  “Yeah,” he said.

“So how is it?” Aaron said.

“Fanfreakintastic,” Sam said.  Aaron laughed.  “Huh,” he said.  Then asked, “So she’s enjoyin it too?”

 _“Oh_ yeah,” Sam said. 

“She playin favorites between you ‘n’ Dean at all?” Aaron asked. 

“Nah,” Sam said.  “She likes both of us.   Equal but different.”

“Wow,” Aaron said.  Sam got the impression he was shaking his head.  “And _Dean’s_ okay with that?”  Aaron asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “He’s chill.”

“Huh,” Aaron said again.  Then said, “Chill.  I don’t associate that word with your _brother,_ somehow.”

Sam was smiling.  “He doesn’t show that side of himself much.”

Aaron snorted.  “No shit.”  Sam laughed.  He was feeling good. 

I mean…Dean _was_ chill about their situation.  Incredibly.  Dean had…achieved that, somehow.  Against the odds.  And to see _Dean_ enjoying things, going with the flow…letting himself _relax_ for once in his life, honestly, that was…

Awesome.  Truly, truly awesome.

Sam was aware of a profound satisfaction, radiating deep within his body.  At this, the thought of Dean, just able to _relax._   Relax enough to finally let Sam be…something new.  _Another_ Sam, a Sam who wasn’t just Dean’s…let’s face it, Dean’s _property,_ Dean’s little brother/bitch/wife _,_ so jealously guarded.

Dean, with his guard down.  A new situation.  And one with…possibilities.

Sam bit his lip.  He was aware of himself grinning like a fool.

But then he felt his expression changing. 

Because honestly, he wasn’t _actually_ fooling around here.  Hunters didn’t, as a rule.  And he was glad suddenly, that there was no one around to see his face right now. 

Especially Dean.

“So I guess you’re safe,” Aaron said. 

“What?” Sam asked, absently.  He’d forgotten what they were talking about. 

“You’re safe,” Aaron repeated.  “You’ve got creds.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“I mean – Dean’s not gonna be too worried that you’re gay anymore…not if you’re fuckin the same _girl_ as him,” Aaron said.

“Oh,” Sam said.  “No.  Guess not.”

“…So…you still interested in that?” Aaron asked.  And now his voice was quiet.  Careful.

“In what?” Sam asked.

“In bein with a guy,” Aaron said. 

Sam didn’t answer.

“Or have you moved on from that,” Aaron said.   And his voice sounded flat now.

“No,” Sam said after a moment.  “I haven’t moved on from that.”

Aaron, quiet.  But Sam was conscious of him, breathing quietly on the other end of the line.

“Me neither,” Aaron said eventually.  And now there was a bleak note in his voice.  It made Sam’s chest hurt.

Aaron, sounding sad.  Sam didn’t want that.  Not when _Sam_ was feeling so happy about things, finally.

“You’ll figure it out,” Sam said to Aaron.  “Eventually.  You’ll figure out how to deal.  And you’ll find someone who’s…that.  For you.  Eventually.  I _know_ you will, dude.  Trust me.”

Silence. 

Sam waited.

“Sam, do me a favour,” Aaron said.

“What?” Sam asked.

“If _you_ …ever find yourself…someone…” Aaron said.  “…like that, I mean…like a… _guy_ …”  He was quiet.

“…Yeah?” Sam asked.

“Do me a favour and don’t tell me about it,” Aaron said.

Sam started to speak.  Stopped.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Aaron said.

“Okay,” Sam said, after a moment.  Then added, awkwardly, “But…I’d like to hear if _you_ find someone, okay Aaron?  _You_ tell _me._ Okay?”

“Okay,” Aaron said.  He sounded tired.  “Sure.”

“…You okay?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah,” Aaron said.  His voice was neutral now.  “I’m fine.  I gotta go now, Sam.  Got practice.”

“Okay…” Sam said.  Hesitated.  “But I’m callin you Saturday, okay?  Usual time.”

“Sure,” Aaron said.  “Saturday.”

“Bye,” Sam said quietly.  They hung up.

Sam stood there, conscious of the ache in his chest.  Aaron still liked him, he could tell.  And I mean…it wasn’t like Aaron was keeping it such a secret.  That was one of the things Sam liked about him actually.  Aaron was direct. 

But…you know.  He and Aaron just couldn’t go there.  And it was too bad, really, that Aaron couldn’t know the real reason. 

That it wasn’t him.  Not at all.  It was Dean.

Oh well.

Sam sighed.  But then started walking towards the diner.  Rhonda and Dean would already be there and he was looking forward to walking in, to those two faces turning towards him smiling, his beautiful brother and beautiful girlfriend, their eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

_Sam!_

Awesome.

Sam picked up his pace.  He was feeling happy again.

***

Aaron was the last thing on Sam’s mind as he walked down the road towards his latest highschool.

Or at least, what _looked_ like the road.

Sam knew that it wasn’t really the road.  Not the road of the real world.

If Sam hadn’t known better, he’d have thought his surroundings _were_ real.  This wasn’t like being in a dream.   There was a warm breeze blowing against his face.  The sound of his feet, crunching over gravel.   His feet in their scuffed runners, walking evenly along the side of this small town road, a familiar road of cracked pavement lined with modest houses, aluminum siding reflecting the warm glare of the late afternoon sun.  Green lawns dotted with flowers and bright plastic children’s toys, bisected with long driveways populated with your basic family model cars and vans, bulbous hot metal shapes sparkling under a clear blue sky.

Sam had been walking this road a lot recently, the route from Rhonda’s house to his school.  It didn’t seem so different from any other time.  Except for two things.

First thing.  The _colours._   Of _everything._   They were _warm._   Vivid.  Intense.  If Sam hadn’t known why he was here, he’d have stopped dead in his tracks and stared, taking his time. 

To savour the _reds,_ the _pinks,_ the _greens,_ the deep bright _blues._   The _yellows,_ so radiant, glowing with life.  The cool violet of the shadows.

To savour these colours like flavours, the lush, vibrant colours of the world, these _colours,_ taken from Sam from before he could remember. 

The colours of life, stolen from him by his father and offered up to the family cause.   _Sacrificed,_ yet another sacrifice Sam had been expected to make, one of many, but _this_ one so profoundly unconsented to, unacknowledged, forgotten.

Sam could have stood and gazed at this warmly glowing world around him forever.  Lost himself in it.  Explored it, infinitely.

Instead he walked on, tears in his eyes.

Because of the second thing.  Because he _knew_ this wasn’t the real world, just a heartbreaking image of it. 

Because he remembered how he’d gotten here.

His hand, clasped in Rhonda’s slender hand, except it _wasn’t_ Rhonda’s hand, not anymore.  The hand of a spirit gone corporeal, crossing over to the human world, jumping the barrier from spirit to flesh, crossing over because of _Sam,_ being such a fucking idiot and joining the third side of the Rhonda-Dean-Sam triangle in spite of everything Dean had said to him about what would happen if _that_ happened.

No longer just brothers.   Him and Dean, entering the forbidden territory of the gods and dragging Rhonda with them, this unwarded, unprotected civilian.

Rhonda suddenly a doorway in the darkness, blazing bright.  Attracting dark things.

And now one of them.

Because of Sam, who’d inexcusably lost his cool.  Who’d forgotten his long game…or _hunt,_ rather.   His long, quiet hunt. 

With its highly specific (and stubborn annoying  _unbelievably_ infuriating/desirable) prey.

Dean.

Big brother, golden sun of Sam’s life, Sam’s only light and warmth in a cold life, lived under the shadow of their dad.

Dean, Sam’s golden god.  Shining over Sam like the sun.  And Sam had broken himself on the altar of Dean.  He had.  He’d given himself up to Dean utterly and neither him _or_ Dean had thought anything of it.

Because that was just the price, for Sam, to have his brother the way he wanted.  

The price.  Just Sam’s whole self.

A sacrifice.  Again.

Because when you enter the territory of the gods, you pay.

And it had been okay.  Right?   Well, maybe not okay.  But it had been something both Dean and he had understood, going in.

Because Winchesters don’t run away from sacrifice.  They understand its necessity, in light of greater considerations. 

And to be able to _sacrifice_ without hesitation, selflessly…that’s key actually, to the making of a strong hunter. 

Their dad had taught them that.

And Dean had expected that, of Sam.  As _his_ price, to abandon everything _else_ their dad had taught him and become what he had become, for Sam. 

Dean’s price.  For his _own_ sacrifice, that betrayal of their dad in such a profound and secret way. 

His price.  Just all of Sam.  Offered up to his older brother without hesitation.

Dean had _wanted that,_ and Sam had given it to him.  Because, you know.

Sam, raised to be the little brother, expected to follow Dean in all things and punished if he didn’t.   And now to _become_ all things to Dean, to give him, everything...

And be punished, if he didn’t.

Because that was Sam’s _responsibility._   Okay?  His _purpose._   And for him to _(sacrifice/be sacrificed)_ do that was nothing new, actually.  Okay?  I mean, Dean’s new expectations of him were really just a twist on a very old theme.  A family tradition, you might say.   And Sam got that.  Because he wasn’t stupid, okay?  Fucked up, maybe, sure.  But not an idiot.

Sacrifice. 

Necessary, in light of greater considerations.

Such as the necessity of having Dean.

That necessity of that, driving through Sam with inevitable force.  That relentless wanting, like a force of nature.

And _worthy_ of sacrifice, also.  Sam had also understood that, going in.  He’d been okay with it, actually.

Because honestly…that was _all_ he’d understood.  Okay?  And that was all _Dean_ had understood and Sam had known that, and he’d wanted Dean anyway.

Their deal, right?  Accepted by both of them.  And in place now, for years.

And it had been okay.  Well, maybe not okay.  But it had been.

But now.

To watch Dean now.  Dean, enjoying his new life.  His (mostly) normal, civilian life, no Dad, no hunt.  No immediate, deadly necessity for him to clamp down, to be on guard, to be the eternal big brother.   

Sam’s keeper.

Dean, finally able to be something other than that.  It wasn’t just _Sam_ who was enjoying some hard won freedom here.  It was Dean too, finally able to be something new, to him and Sam both.

And Sam had _wanted that._   He’d wanted it.  He’d wanted that, for Dean, for himself.  He’d _wanted…_

For Dean, able finally to let go.

And be- ?

And it _was._

It was, finally.

It was finally _happening._

Oh why, _why_ had Sam had to fuck things up?

His quiet, careful plan for Dean, his _hunt,_ forgotten in a moment of white hot rage.

And now everything was turned to shit.  Everything.

Unless he could make things right. 

So Sam, clasping the spirit’s hand, staring into its cloudy yellow eyes.  Repeating the words given to him,  glottal, harsh sounding words, not Latin, words older than Latin, an ancient root language  buried by time, words unspoken now except by spirits and the witches brave and foolish enough to summon them.  Secret words, lost to the world, guarded closely.

But given to Sam now.  Words handed to him like keys.  To release him from the warding spell that had locked him down since before memory.  And then propel him _here,_ to this place. 

To walk this spirit version of the world, open and alive to its incredible beauty but not distracted by it.

Because of the fight to come.

Sam walked steadily towards his school, coming into sight now, a low, sprawling red brick building with a parking lot on one side and an athletic field behind. 

Sam walked past the parking lot, past the building’s entrance doors, past the white metal flagpole, the red, white and blue flag fluttering gently. 

The scene around him didn’t seem so real world now.  This time of day there’d be lots of kids around, streaming through the front doors, hanging out on the lawn or in the parking lot, inhabiting the athletic field, their voices calling out, a cheerful background of noise and motion. 

There was nothing. 

Not a person in sight.  Not a sound, except for the rustling wind.

Sam walked on.

The athletic field came into view.  A wide expanse of grass with bleachers on one side and a straight length of track on the other (Rhonda had bitched on more than one occasion about her old school not having a circular track).   Sam gazed over the field.

He saw a figure standing at the far end.  Just standing there, facing him.  A teenage boy, about Sam’s age.  Sam looked at him carefully.  Then walked towards him, glaring.

“Very funny,” Sam snapped.  He stopped in front of the figure of Aaron, not getting too close.

The creature who looked like Aaron smirked. 

“Well _I_ thought it was funny,” it said.

“How’d you know about Aaron, anyway?” Sam asked it.

“Oh, I know everything about you Sam,” the spirit said.  “You’re unwarded, remember?  I’ve had a chance to peek into that interesting head of yours.”

Sam went cold.  “You c’n read my mind?” he asked.  “My _thoughts?”_

“I can’t read your actual thoughts,” the spirit said.  “To do that, I’d have to _be_ you…that’ll come later, once I’ve possessed you.  But I can pick up images that have an emotional charge for you.  Like this little town…you’ve been happy here, haven’t you?   Maybe the only place in your wandering life that’s approached a sense of home, other than that ridiculous car.  And I can see the forms of the people who are important to you.  Dean, of course, I can see him down to the pores on his skin.  And Rhonda.  And _this_ attractive young man.  And of course, your father, who casts such a blight over your spirit.  Although he’d be proud of you, right now.”

Sam’s expression tensed.  He noticed the spirit noticing.

 _“My,_ you certainly have daddy issues,” the spirit said.  “Does John have any idea how much you hate his guts?”  It laughed.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “It’s not like it’s such a secret.”

“Perhaps not between you and John,” the spirit said, “but you’ve tried to keep that from _Dean,_ haven’t you?  Both of you.”

Sam was quiet.  Then said, “Not really.  Not as much as we should’ve.”

“No,” the spirit said.  “Guess not.”  It wasn’t smiling now.  “Both you and John love Dean.  And both of you know just how much it hurts him to witness the discord between you.  Despite his best efforts.  But those efforts aren’t enough, are they?  They never were.  Your shared love for Dean does not equal your disdain for each other.  And Dean knows it.”

Sam was quiet.  Thinking about this.

 _Him and his dad getting into it.  As far back as Sam could remember.  And Dean there.  Dean watching, Dean_ always _there, putting himself between his brother and his father, trying to make things better.  For their family.  So things could continue, somehow._

_Dean’s helpless, grief stricken expression._

Sam’s face twisted.  But then he gazed coldly at the thing wearing Aaron’s face.  “Shut up,” he said.  “That’s none of your business.”

“Not true,” the spirit said.  “Your business _will_ be my business, Sam, as soon as I’m wearing you.  I will take on some of what you are, it’s inevitable.  That anger, that sense of frustrated entitlement…”   It smiled again.  “I have a vested interest in your sad little life, child.  Once I’m wearing you, in the world.”

“Fuck off,” Sam said.  Looked at it.  “The only interest _you’re_ gonna have, once this fight is over, is in keepin your promise.  From _this_ side.”

“Ah yes,” the spirit said, smiling.  “My promise to be your supernatural equivalent of Rover.   Coming to your call, ears flopping, tail wagging.”

“Not just to me,” Sam said.  “To Dean too.  _That’s_ what you signed up for, spirit.”

“In order to achieve that,” the spirit said.  “You’ll have to have my name.  You can’t call me from across the veil otherwise.  And you’ll never have my name unless I give it to you.”

Sam smiled.  “You’ll give it to me,” he said.  “As the price for your life.”

“Cocky little brat, aren’t you?” the spirit said.  “I’m going to enjoy riding you, Samuel.  _All_ of you, body, mind and soul, so delightfully mine.  Like _you_ signed up for.”

“It’s _Sam,_ asshole,” Sam said.

“Sam…” the spirit repeated.   Luxuriously, like it was tasting the sound of Sam’s name.   And stared at him.

Sam stared back, observing the light blue eyes under dark brows, Aaron’s eyes, now watching him hungrily.  He felt that blue stare on his skin.

“Why’d you pick _him_ to fight in?” Sam asked.   “Why not a Cthulu monster or somethin?  Or a werecat, like Dean got.”

The spirit smiled.  “You were prepared for that, weren’t you?” it said.  “Arriving here all fired up to fight some monster.  Proving you’re a _hunter,_ after all.”

“I _am_ a hunter,” Sam said coldly.  “You’ll see.”  He readied himself to spring forward.  “Let’s go, spirit.” 

The spirit held up a hand.  “Wait,” it said.  “Just like that?  In the battlefield of the mind, Sam, you have all the weapons of living memory at your disposal.”  And suddenly the figure of Aaron was wearing a metal studded leather jerkin, a sword in one hand and a vicious looking mace in the other.

Sam snorted.  “We playin Dungeons and Dragons now?  _You_ picked my school’s football field as our fightin ground, asshole.  Commit to the context.”

“Very well,” the spirit said.  The archaic clothing and weapons were gone, just Aaron standing there in a blue polo shirt and chinos. 

Sam eyed this.  “If I fight you like that, no gadgets,” he said, “I have your word that this is your shape.  Your, like, _avatar_.  You’re not goin to change on me, halfway through.  Grow a second head or somethin.”

The spirit shrugged, smiled.  “I stay like this,” it said, “if you stay like that.”

“Like what?” Sam said.  He looked down at himself.   “What else would I be?”

“A regular human boy,” the spirit said. 

“As opposed to…?” Sam said.

“Another sort of human,” the spirit said.  “One with a dark gift.”

Sam looked at it.  He didn’t say anything.

The spirit looked back, gravely now.  “One of us gave you their blood.  I don’t know who, or for what purpose, that information is hidden from me, locked away behind a shielding spell too strong for me to break and that’s saying something.  But you have it, Sam.  A rare and awesome gift.”

“It’s not a gift,” Sam said.  “It’s a _curse.”_

“Not over here,” the spirit said.  And was silent.

Sam thought about this.  Then said, “So I c’n…choose to fight you… _with_ that…or without it.”

“Yes,” the spirit said.

“Sounds like I should fight you _with_ it,” Sam said.  “If it makes me so awesome.”

The spirit smiled.  “You could,” it said.   And was silent.

“I don’t understand,” Sam said, eventually.  “Why are you telling me this?”

The spirit shrugged.  “Because you know it about yourself already,” it said.  “And in the extremity of battle you will try to use it.  I know _that_ much about you.  Unless you pledge _not_ to use it.  Invoke another warding spell to lock the power of that blood away from yourself.  And fight me as teenage Sam.  Nothing else.”  The spirit smiled.  “ _You_ must commit to the context, too.”

Sam thought about this.  Then asked, “Why should I?  Seems like I’d just be handicappin myself for no good reason. _”_

“There’s a reason,” the spirit said. 

“Which is?” Sam asked.

“You drink from that dark well,” the spirit said, “You become one of us.  The price for tapping that delicious blood of yours, Sam, is your humanity.”

Sam was quiet.

“And any victory using that…,” the spirit continued, “will be a victory of _this_ world.  It will change you, child.  You’ll find it impossible to return to your own world, afterwards.”

“No I won’t,” Sam said.  “I’m goin back to Dean.”

“Ah,” the spirit said.  “But as _what?”_

Sam stared at it.  Then asked, “What _happened_ to me?”  He heard his voice rise.  “What _am_ I?”

“I don’t know,” the spirit replied.  “There’s something hidden in you, Sam, a charming mystery.  But it will be revealed to me, once I possess you.  And then we will both know.”

“Too late for _me,_ by then,” Sam said. 

The spirit smiled.  “True,” it said.  “But you won’t care once you’ve surrendered yourself to me.  As promised.  _All_ of you, including that dark blood of yours.  It will be mine, by then.  My prize, won fairly.”

“You may not want it,” Sam said.  “Once you know where it comes from.  And by then it’ll be too late for you _too.”_

The spirit shrugged.  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” it said.

Sam considered.  “So if I fight you…just as me…just as if you ‘n’ I were in the _real_ world, you’ll fight me just as Aaron?”

“Yes,” the spirit said.

“Just a regular fight,” Sam said.  “Between two kids.  No weird weapons.  No supernatural crazy shit.”

“A regular fight,” the spirit said.  

“Then I’ll _win,”_ Sam said.  Looking at the spirit.  “I’ll beat you, if you’re just fightin me as _Aaron_ and not the Creature from the Black Lagoon or somethin.”

The spirit didn’t seem concerned.  It shrugged.  “You might,” it said.  “Or I might win.”  It raised Aaron’s hands, looked at them admiringly.  “This body is well coordinated, well trained, strong.   Considerably heavier than yours…you may very well end up under me, Sam.  Pinned and helpless.  Waiting for your death at my hands.”

“Unless I surrender to you,” Sam said.

“Yes,” the spirit answered.  “Unless you surrender to me.  Utterly.   As you _promised me,_ child.  That promise you enticed me with. _”_

“What if I _don’t_ surrender?” Sam asked.  “What if I choose death over that?”

“If you _break_ that sweet promise to me,” the spirit said, “I will possess your dead body.  You’ll wake up in Dean’s arms as a revenant.  Still hungry for life but brain dead, that hunger now nothing but a mindless need to devour warm flesh and blood.   You’ll chew Dean’s face off before he’s even realized you’ve opened your eyes.”

“Jesus,” Sam said, after a moment.  “Why’d you go ‘n’ do _that?”_

“As vengeance for your broken word,” the spirit said.  “And for the succulent taste of Dean’s flesh.”

“Revenants are hunted down,” Sam said.  “Always.  And if you’ve trapped yourself inside one spirit, you’ll end up salted and burned.”

The spirit smiled.  “But before that Dean will be dead,” it said.  “Or irreparably maimed.”

Sam stared.  “You’d never do it,” he said.

The spirit shrugged.  “I might, I might not.  Spirits have ways of escaping the body of a revenant, you know.  We can spring the trap.  Sleeper spells, that kind of thing.  Revenants aren’t the most pleasant way for us to tour the mortal world, but they’re not a completely impracticable option.   And if you broke your promise to me Sam, I’d be _very_ motivated to…choose that option.”

Sam was quiet.  Then asked, “Why Aaron for this?”

The spirit laughed softly.  “Not to change the subject or anything,” it said.

Sam waited.  He didn’t reply.

The spirit shrugged again.  “I chose Aaron, because…” it stopped.  Then looked at Sam, out of Aaron’s blue eyes.  “Because he’s someone you’d surrender to,” it said.  Looked at Sam.  “If you could.” 

 _“No_ I wouldn’t,” Sam said.

The spirit snorted.  “Don’t pull that shit with me,” it said.  “If Dean wasn’t in the picture, you’d let Aaron fuck you, just like he wants to.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“And when you’re on the ground…under me…” the spirit said.  “You’ll _want_ to surrender.  And not just to save Dean’s life.  You’ll want it.  For yourself.”

“No,” Sam said.  “I _won’t.”_

“Yes you will,” the spirit said.  “Because you know, Sam, deep down, that there’s nothing in your future but pain.  For you.  For others.  And _especially_ for Dean.  And knowing that…and knowing that you have the option to _forgo_ that…by joining me…that’s not such a bad option for you.  Considering.”

Sam closed his eyes.  “No,” he whispered.   “That’s _not true.”_

“You know it is,” the spirit whispered back.  “You were raised to be a weapon Sam, just like your brother.  But somehow…with you…John got it wrong.  You’re a weapon, true, but more dangerous to those closest to you than those you were raised to hunt.  And you are tainted with the blood of my world.  And I can’t imagine…I mean…John must know _something_ about that, he’s not stupid, your father.  He doesn’t hate you without reason.”

“Shut up,” Sam said.  “That’s _enough,_ asshole!”  And he was breathing hard suddenly.  At the thought.

Of his dad.  Hating him. 

Sam had always known that.  Somehow.  And he’d _said_ that too, in anger, in grief.  To Dean.  To their dad.

But it was another thing to hear it from _this_ creature.

Sam was shaking.

“Oh John doesn’t hate you utterly child, don’t get me wrong,” the spirit said.  “You’re still his son, he sees that in you, perhaps too much.  He sees himself in you.  And so he loves you too.  Loves and hates you in almost equal measure.”

“I’m _nothing_ like him,” Sam said, bitterly.

“Yes you are child, don’t delude yourself,” the spirit said.  “You’re as ruthless as your father.   And he knows it.”  The spirit’s voice dropped.  “But he prizes that about you, prizes it above all else, that stone cold will of yours.  He respects it.  And he understands it very well, after all, that’s _him,_ isn’t it?  But that quality that you and he share…it’s also what would make John okay with your death.  You’re expendable to him, just as _he_ is, to himself.  Or you would be, if he wasn’t so concerned about the effect of your death on Dean.”

“Fuck you!” Sam snapped.   His chest was heaving.  “Who do you think you are, sayin those things to me!”

The spirit laughed.  “Hit a sore spot, have we?”

Sam didn’t answer.

“Even if you survive this fight,” the spirit said, “there will come a time when you know, in your soul, that things would have been better if you’d just ended everything.  Right here.  Right now.  That _Dean_ would have been better if you just didn’t come back from this.  And just made an end of yourself, for once and for all.  Just like you so often think about your _father.”_

Sam closed his eyes.  All the times he’d wished his dad out of the picture.  Wished for John to fuck off,  to be finally dead at the hands of some monster or by his own hand, the final solution to his endless despair. 

To leave his sons in peace.  Sam and Dean, orphans now, but free.  Able, at long last, to get on with their own lives.

Trouble was, their father’s death _wouldn’t_ leave Dean in peace.

It would take more than that to free Dean.  Sam had figured that out some time ago.

But wait a moment. 

Why was he even _thinking_ about this?  It had nothing to do with what was about to happen here.  Did it? 

Sam opened his eyes.   “You’re fuckin with me.”

The spirit smiled.  “Am I?” it asked. 

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “You are.”

“Little human,” the spirit replied.   “Why would I even _bother?”_

“Cause you’re scared of me,” Sam said.

The spirit snorted.  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” Sam said.  “Tell me you’re not scared of me.”

The spirit didn’t answer.

Sam laughed softly.  “I knew it,” he said.   He saw the spirit’s expression change.

“You know nothing,” it said coldly.  “And if you had any comprehension of who you’re _really_ dealing with, it is _you_ who would be scared.   _Abject,_  with terror.  I’m being gentle with you, arrogant _boy,_ and you’re too stupid to see it!”

Sam was quiet, staring at the angry face in front of him.  A moment passed.  Then he looked down. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice.  “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.”  He peeked up at the spirit through his lashes.  “I know you’re bein…gentle with me…and you don’t have to be.  I _was_ bein stupid, spirit.  I’m real sorry.”

The spirit’s expression softened.  “Well,” it said.  “I guess that’s a lesson for you.”

Sam nodded.  He looked down again.  Then said, shyly, “The _real_ you…”

“…Yes?”

“What do you really look like?”  Sam asked.  “Under that?”  He gestured at the Aaron-thing in front of him, glanced up at it through his lashes again.  Saw the blue eyes on him, mild now. 

“I can’t describe myself to you,” the spirit said.  “Not in terms you’d understand.”

“So…I can’t see you?” Sam asked.  “Not the _real_ you, I mean.”

“No,” the spirit said.  “You can only see the symbols in which I choose to reveal myself.”

“And that goes for this place too I guess,” Sam said.  He gestured at their surroundings.   “This isn’t _really_ what the spirit world looks like, is it?  You created this for me.  Set it up.”

“Yes,” the spirit said.  “When I accepted your challenge, I created this image for our battlefield.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sam said sincerely.

The spirit glanced around itself, smiling.  “It _is_ rather good, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Sam said.  “But why go to all the trouble?”

“Because I have no choice,” the spirit replied.  “Not if I want to communicate with you intelligibly.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Because you’re mortal,” the spirit said.  “Mortals can’t see us in our true forms.” 

 _“_ Oh,” Sam said.  “So I’ll _never_ get to see you then?”  He sounded disappointed. 

The spirit smiled at him.  “You really want that, do you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I’m fascinated.”  Again speaking sincerely.  Because after all…it was true.

I mean, _snakes_ were fascinating.   Right?

“Fascinated…” the spirit repeated.  And now gazing at Sam with something like affection.  “Well…first of all you’d have to die, Sam.”

 _“Die?”_   Sam said.   And now he sounded appalled.  And about twelve years old. 

The spirit laughed.  “Yes.  Your body anyway.  If your body died right now, you’d see me and my world as we truly are.”  And it smiled at him.

“Ohhhh,” Sam said.   He sounded intrigued.  But still appalled.  “I don’t want _that.”_

The spirit was smiling at him.  “Don’t worry,” it said.  “That sweet body of yours won’t be dying any time soon.  Not under _my_ watch.   I’m all about it living a long, _long_ life, child. _”_

Sam was quiet.  “So what happens to _you?”_ he asked after a moment.  “If _you_ die?”

The spirit shrugged.  “I don’t know,” it said.  “Death…that’s the great mystery, isn’t it?  The veil beyond the veil.”   And it looked at Sam, smiling.

“You scared of that?” Sam asked it.

“No,” the spirit said.  “I must confess I’m not ready for it, though.  The pull of _your_ world is still stronger for me than the pull of the beyond.”

“But you’re riskin death,” Sam said, “by showin up for this fight.  Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the spirit said.  “By agreeing to meet you in battle, I accepted the possibility of death.  In such a fight, damage to the form in which I choose to manifest myself is damage to me.”

“So if I kill your _Aaron_ form…” Sam said.  “You, like, _die_.  For real.  Right?  You’re _gone.”_

“Yes,” the spirit said.

“And I guess that goes for me too,”  Sam said.  He gestured towards himself.   _“This_ stands in for _my_ real body.  You kill me here, I die _there._   In the world. _”_

“That’s right,” the spirit said.  “But I’m not killing you, Sam, as you know very well.  Or damaging you, hopefully, too much.  I remind you that I have a stake in that body of yours.   The one even now so tenderly clasped in Dean’s arms.”

Sam willed himself not to react to that.  He gazed at the spirit, its eyes trained on him.  Blinked at it again.  Observed the effect of this, the blue eyes darkening.

“I will take you to the brink of death, sweet one,” the spirit continued softly.  “And when you are there, you will surrender to me.”

“And why would I do that?” Sam whispered back.

The spirit smiled at him.  “For Dean’s sake,” it said, “if nothing else.  Think about that way, if it will make things easier for you.”

“For Dean…” Sam murmured.   Like he _was_ thinking about it.  He saw the spirit’s nostrils flare.  “But I have a question,” Sam said.

The spirit sighed.  “ _Another_ question,” it said.  “Shocking.” 

Sam grinned.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “But I’m just tryin to understand things.  So I c’n make an informed _choice_ , right?  _Get_ the context so I c’n _commit_ to the context.  And I just need to be clear on one last thing.”   And then he turned on the puppy eyes.  Blinked at the spirit.  “Please?”

The spirit sighed again.  “Fine,” it said.  “Ask your question.”

“So if I die _here…”_ Sam said, “As avatar Sam…my _real_ body dies too.  Right?  Like what you said.”

“Yes,” the spirit said.

“And _then_ I get to see the real you.” Sam asked.  “Because even though my body’s dead, _I’m still here_.  Right? _”_

The spirit was quiet.  But it looked at Sam suddenly.

Sam stared back.  No puppy eyes now. 

 _“_ So…if _I’m_ still here…” he continued, “And now I c’n see you and _this_ place without all the fancy window dressin…what am I here as?”   

He looked at the spirit.  It didn’t say anything. 

“I’m here as a _spirit,”_ Sam said.  “Aren’t I?”

The spirit didn’t reply.

 _“Answer me,”_ Sam said.  “I know you can’t lie.”

“You’re here as a spirit,” the spirit said, rather shortly. 

“Huh…” Sam said thoughtfully.  Then he smiled.  “Just like _you,”_ he said. 

 _“…No!_ ” the spirit snapped.  “Nothing like me.  You’d be nothing but a _newbie_ , Sam.  A puling little entity _._   It takes centuries, millennia, to even _approach_ being _anything_ like me!”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said humbly.  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”  He looked down again, lowering his lashes.

The spirit sighed.  “You can cut the cute act,” it said.   “Now that I’ve answered your _real_ question.”  It sighed again.  “You little trollop.”

Sam looked up, smiling.  Then said, “So…if my _body_ dies…while I’m over here…I stay _here._   And become a new spirit.  _I_ don’t move on.   Not like _you_ would, if _you_ died.  Right?”

The spirit was quiet. 

“I’m just _here,”_ Sam said.  “Until I figure out a way to leave.” 

The spirit looked at him.  Its eyes on Sam, wary now.  It didn’t answer.  

“Just like you,” Sam continued.  “Just _you’ve_ been here, all this time.  Waitin for your chance to get out.  To sneak back to Earth wearin someone else’s body.  Or get up the nerve to _really_ die.  _Finally.”_

The spirit, quiet.

“I get what you are now,” Sam said.  “ _All_ you asshole spirits.  You’re _souls_ who somehow got stuck here because your mortal bodies died while you were away from them.  And left you _here._   Floatin around in nowhere land.”

The spirit was glaring at him.  “This isn’t ‘ _nowhere land,’”_ it said.

“Sure it is,” Sam said.  “That’s why you’re all so eager to get back to Earth.”

The spirit didn’t reply.

 _“Spirits,”_ Sam said.  “I get you now.  You’re _lost souls,_ that’s all.  Souls with no bodies to come back to and too scared to move on.  So you just hang around, tellin yourselves how great you are…playin your supernatural version of video games.”

“That’s enough!” the spirit said.  “You speak of things beyond your puny mortal comprehension, boy!  You have no right.”

Sam smiled.  “Hit a sore spot, have we?” he asked. 

The spirit looked at him.  Then said, “What a sharp little tongue you have.  You’re lucky I don’t cut it out of your head.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said, smiling.  “I think I’m safe from that, though.  You don’t want to _damage me,_ remember?”

The spirit snorted.  “Brat,” it said.  “I see why your family finds you such a trial.  Poor John, I almost feel sorry for him.  Putting up with _you_ every day, oh me oh my.  To say nothing of _Dean.”_

The smile was gone from Sam’s face.  “Fuck off,” he said coldly.  

The spirit stared at him.  Its expression was equally cold.  “I’m not going anywhere,” it said.  “I’m right here, until you finally quit _hanging around_ and get up the nerve to fight me.  So make your choice.  Do we fight with the bodies of these attractive youths?  Or something else?  Choose your weapon, Sam.  Or do we stand here talking until Dean dies of old age?”

Sam felt sudden panic.  “How much time has passed?” he asked.  “Outside?”

The spirit smiled.  “Time’s passing in its own time,” it said.  “Trust me.”

Sam clenched his teeth.   “So if I choose to fight you…just as me…that means you’re givin me some words again.  Right?  Some sorta _spell,_ that’ll lock me into my normal body.  And take away any edge my spirit blood gives me, over here.”

“Yes,” the spirit said.  “But remember, that’s the same for me.  If I pledge to fight you in Aaron’s body, I’ll be just like him.  No supernatural advantages.”

“Except that _you_ get to die,” Sam said.  “If I win and you choose death over honourin our deal.  Cause you don’t _actually_ have a body in the real world.  Not like I do.”

The spirit was quiet.

“If _you_ die,” Sam said, “you get to move on from here.  But I don’t.”

The spirit was quiet.  Looking at him.

“I get it now,” Sam said to it, slowly.  “I get how you’re fuckin with me.” 

The spirit smiled.

 Sam was shaking.  “You know there’s no way out for me,” he said.  “I win or I surrender.  _Real_ death…that isn’t an option for me.” 

“No,” the spirit said.  “It isn’t.  But don’t despair.  You could still win.”  And smiling at him.

“Yeah,” Sam said bitterly.  “I get that part too.  We fight, I win, I go back to Dean.”

“Sure,” the spirit said.  “That’s the horse you bet on, coming in.  So why do you sound like that, Sam?  You doubting yourself now?”

“No,” Sam said. 

“Then why are you unhappy, child?” the spirit asked.  “I’m giving you your chance at life.”

Sam glared at it.  “Don’t bullshit me,” he said.  “You’re not givin me anythin.  So tell me.  If I let you spell me away from my dark blood…and fight you just as Sam, the kid…once I beat you…what happens then?”

“What do you mean?” the spirit asked.

“You know what I mean,” Sam said.  “What happens to me, after that?”

“You go back to Dean,” the spirit said.

“Right,” Sam said.  “How?”

The spirit was quiet.

“Dean said that my dark blood would save me, over here,” Sam said.  “That it was like, my green card.  So what happens if you spell me so that I can’t use it?”

 The spirit was quiet.

“Answer me!” Sam snapped.  “That’s a fair question, spirit!”

“You’ll have to find your own way out,” the spirit said.  “Just like any other human traveller in this realm.”

“Right,” Sam said.  “Just like any other clueless human who ends up on this side of the fence.  Trespassin.  Unwarded.”

The spirit watched him, quietly.

“I’m not gonna be able to get out,” Sam said.  “Am I?  Not even if I win.  Cause I don’t know my way around in here.  And if I’m spelled then I won’t be able to use my dark blood either.  I’ll be a sitting duck for any spirit who spots me while I’m tryin to figure things out.  _Redress._   Right?”  He looked at the spirit.

The spirit was quiet.

Sam rolled his eyes.  “I know you can’t lie,” he said.  “So when you _don’t_ say anythin you’re more or less provin my point.”

“You’ll be a sitting duck,” the spirit said.

Sam looked at it.  “Not gettin out, any time soon,” he said.

The spirit shrugged.  “Nope,” it said.

“Unless I have help,” Sam said.  “Just like I had help to get _in_ here.”

The spirit looked at him.

 _“Your_ help,” Sam said.  “Right?”

The spirit smiled at him.

Sam felt a desperate anger, rising up.  “So what’s the price?” he asked.  “For your _help?”_

“I ride you back,” the spirit said.  “I cross over into your world with you.”

“Into _my_ body,” Sam said.

The spirit shrugged.  “We could negotiate that,” it said.  “I could jump into someone else, once I’m over there.  You could find me a suitable…prospect.”

“I would _never_ do that,” Sam said.

The spirit smiled.  “Well…so I guess it would be _your_ body then.  Sam.”

“So we’re back to where we started,” Sam said.  He was shaking again.  “There’s no way out for me.”

“What a smart child,” the spirit said softly.  “Having that mind of yours at my disposal…ah.  But I digress.    Yes, you will be my prize.  One way or another.  Of course, I’m after the _full_ surrender, just like you promised me, that sweet body, that beautiful razor blade mind...and that marvellous ice cold soul, all given up to me, to say nothing of that mysterious blood of yours.  But even if you win, at the least I will have your body.  Not such a terrible consolation prize.”

 _“No,”_ Sam said.  He felt tears rising.  Tamped them down, ruthlessly.  “That’s not happenin.   If _I_ win, we’re not negotiatin _anythin._   You’ll give me what _I_ ask for or _you_ die.”

The spirit shrugged.  “So I die…and you stay here.  Savouring your hollow victory while your earthly body lies tranced, slowly wasting away with Dean keeping vigil beside it, the fair Prince beside Snow White.  And sooner or later you’ll indeed be noticed by one of my kind, this fresh human soul floating around, with that lovely, mortal scent… a soul still connected to a physical, earthbound body…a way _in,_ a _bridge,_ for our kind, to the material world…and without my protection you _are_ a sitting duck.   And there _will_ be redress, Sam.  Spirits will try to possess your mortal body, it’s inevitable.  _And_ they will punish you, for trespassing.   _And_ they won’t be gentle with you.  Unlike me.”

“So I die then,” Sam said.  “I fight them and I die.  I take my body off the table.”

The spirit smiled.  “Ah,” it said.  “But we’ve already established that you _can’t_ die.  Not trapped away from your mortal body like you are.  Your _body_ will perish but you’ll just transform into a new spirit, a baby again, without memory, without speech, without the ability to manifest into images such as these…you will need to learn those things, Sam…and that learning takes a long time.  A very long time.”

“Fine,” Sam said.   “So I die, I grow up as a spirit…and _then_ I die.  For real.  Just as soon as I’m able to.  And move on.  Get the hell outa here.”

“And never see Dean again,” the spirit said.

Sam was crying.  “No,” he said.  “I guess not.  But at least he’ll get to live his life.”

“He will not,” the spirit said. 

Sam looked at it.

“Your mortal body will be possessed,” the spirit said.  “One way or another.  You _will_ become a revenant, Sam.  Because _any_ earthly body with a supernatural connection is a way in to your world, doesn’t matter whether it’s dead or alive.  It is a bridge, irresistible to our kind.  You hunters do not salt and burn such bodies without reason.”  It looked at Sam, gravely now.  “And make no mistake, if you choose mortal death over surrender… _I_ will make you a revenant.  And I _will_ find you again, once I’m finished destroying your brother.  I will _find_ your little baby spirit as it floats around in the ether.  You will _not_ grow up here to nobly seek your own death.  I will find you and I will raise you to be a weapon of _our_ kind, an unparalled supernatural hunter.  I will mold that cold and deadly soul of yours.  I will finish John’s work for him.”

Sam closed his eyes.  He didn’t say anything.

“You’re right,” the spirit said softly.  “When you say there’s no way out for you.  Other than an honourable surrender.  And once you have given yourself up to me…I _will_ be gentle with you, lovely child.  If you surrender, you will not be my prisoner.  You’ll be an extension of _me_ , a living part of all our experiences…and we’ll enjoy our life, I guarantee it.  And we’ll see Dean again _._   And he will live _his_ life.  I’ll look out for him, like I promised  you.”

“I hate you,” Sam whispered.  He was crying.

“Child,” the spirit whispered back, “I feed upon your hate.  So answer me.  How do you fight?”

Sam heard those words from a distance.   A terrible, black despair was rising, taking him over, swamping him like a boat tossed under ocean waves.  He lowered his head, ready to sink beneath those waves, to stop the useless struggling, to give in. 

To sink into oblivion, the sweetness of that word, he understood that now. 

So he’d thought he was so smart, huh?  And where had that ever gotten him?  Everything, everything he had ever tried, to move on from the life expected of him…to move _Dean_ on, from that life…all of Sam’s efforts…and they had brought him here, to this place, to be at the mercy of this merciless being wearing the face of his best friend.    

No.  Time to let go.  Time to give in, to let the spirit have what it wanted.  Why even fight?  It was futile anyway.  Just let go.  And surrender, into sweet oblivion.  Sure Sam would be gone but at least Dean would be okay.  Well, maybe not okay, but he would be.  He would go on.  He’d have his chance, to be okay.

Sacrifice.  It was time.

Sam opened his eyes.  He stared at the being in front of him, the intent blue eyes, brightening now as they registered the despair on Sam’s face.

Aaron’s eyes.

Okay but wait.  Wait a moment.

This spirit, showing up as _Aaron._ Not some hideous monster that Sam would have immediately attacked, without hesitation.

No.  The spirit had showed up as _Aaron._   And then it had _talked_ to Sam _._   _Discussed_ things.  Given Sam _options._

_How do you fight?_

And Sam had _wanted_ to fight it as Aaron, he’d been relieved, actually.  Because I mean, fighting another kid behind your school, that’s something Sam could get his head around.  _Contextualize._   And he’d have a better chance of winning something like that.  Right?  So he’d been ready to buy right into it. 

_I have your word that this is your shape…you won’t change on me half way through…grow like, a second head or somethin._

And then the spirit telling Sam what he’d need to do, to ensure those advantageous terms.  For Sam to lock himself down under yet another spell, cutting himself off from the spirit blood that apparently ran through his veins, something done to him so young he couldn’t remember it, yet another _thing_ forced upon him, another primal supernatural rape as unconsented to as that first warding spell cast upon him by his own father.  That blighting spell that had separated Sam from the true colours of the world.

But sure.  Okay.  Maybe another spell was the way to go.  I mean, it had _sounded_ fair.

_I stay like this…if you stay like that._

Sam’s _choice_ , to fight as human _._    Because apparently he could also choose to fight as _spirit._   That spirit blood…it was Sam’s green card to this place, right?  He had rights here because of something that had happened to him long ago.  _Something,_ that had made him-

_Another sort of human.  One with a dark gift._

-Sam, the freak.  And he’d always known that, somehow.  But he could _use_ that freak quality in here.  And why not? 

But then the spirit explaining why _._

_You drink from that dark well, you become one of us.  The price for tapping that delicious blood of yours, Sam, is your humanity._

And those words, like doom.

Because spirits can’t lie.  They can play tricks with words, they can omit things…but they can’t lie.  And Sam knew, deep down, in his gut, in his heart…that this was the truth. 

Hunting.  It was about maintaining the line.  That critical line, the border wall between humanity and…not.   And if you _crossed_ that line, even with the best of intentions…you weren’t a hunter anymore.   Now you were part of the problem.  Now you were _why_ hunters existed.  Because you’d crossed over and been changed by that.  Changed into something different.    _Other._

If you crossed over, you became something else. 

Prey.

So.  Fucked that way, too. 

Anyway you looked at it, Sam wasn’t coming back from this place.  Not the way he’d hoped to, going in.  The way _Dean_ had hoped for him.

_That blood’ll save you.  You c’n fight this asshole and come back.  All in one piece.  No redress.  Spirits aren’t gonna exercise that against their own blood.  Right?  You’ll be okay.  You’ll come back to me…okay!_

And Dean smiling so hopefully.

But he’d been wrong.  Because if Sam tapped that blood and fought the spirit as _spirit…_

_Any victory…using that…will be a victory of this world.  It will change you, child.  You’ll find it impossible to return to your own world, afterwards._

_“No I won’t,” Sam saying.  “I’m goin back to Dean.”_

_Ah.  But as what?_

As what.

Back to Dean, but as _what?_   Could Sam do that?  _Should he?_

 _Even if you survive this fight there will come a time when you know, in your soul, that things would have been better if you’d just ended everything...that_ Dean _would have been better if you just didn’t come back from this._  

Those words, ringing in Sam’s mind. 

The ring of truth.

Despair, like black waves. 

The spirit was right.  It was an asshole, but it was right.  If Sam became some monster to fight a monster…he couldn’t go back to Dean after that.   Doing that to himself…that was just another form of redress, self inflicted this time.  Oh, Dean would take him back, _whatever_ came back, no question about that.  But _should_ he?  Could Sam let him?

Sam’s choice. 

Except was it, really?

Sacrifice.  All roads leading back to that.  And the spirit just standing there, smiling at him.

That asshole, so smug now, just waiting, those blue eyes smiling.  For Sam to admit the logic in front of him.  And surrender, to this final despair. 

But-

Wait.  Wait a moment.

Just wait.

That couldn’t be just _it._   Right?

There had to be something.  Something else.  Something more.  Something _other._

Some other _way._   Out of this. 

Sam was thinking, frantically.

Those blue eyes.

Aaron’s eyes.

The spirit, showing up as Aaron.

_Why?_

Jesus.  _Think about this._

Okay.  So.

The spirit could have shown up as anything.  Why Aaron?  

The spirit was trying to fuck with Sam’s head, obviously.

But _why?_  Why should it?  And the spirit had even _said_ that, contemptuously.

_Little human.  Why would I even bother?_

True.  Right?  But no.  Because the spirit had never answered _that question,_ Sam realized suddenly.  A question to a question, _that_ wasn’t an answer.  And Sam hadn’t bothered to pin the spirit down on that.  Because, like a cocky twit, he’d moved right on to the answer which he’d figured out for himself.  Smart-ass Sam, showing off.

_You’re scared of me._

Sam saying that and then the spirit getting furious.  And then going on and on about _itself,_ about how it was _Sam_ who should be terrified, et cetera ad nauseam.  But still _not answering the question._

Why?

Because it was the truth.

Sam felt a deep, cold certainty inside of him, like an internal eye, opening.

The spirit was scared of him.

And if it was _scared_ of him…

There must be a reason. 

A reason.

And if there was a _reason…_

That meant there was a way out.  Of this.

Sam just had to find it.

Sam met the spirit’s eyes.  “So…you fight me as _Aaron_ …and I fight you as _me…”_ he said.  He saw its expression perk up.  “You ready to give me that spell?”  Sam asked it.

“Yes,” the spirit said.  “Repeat the words after me and the spell will bind both of us.”

“So we can’t fight, except in human form,” Sam said.

“Yes.”

“Although that makes no real difference,” Sam said.  “I still can’t go home.  Not as _me._   You’ve made _that_ pretty clear.”

The spirit shrugged.  “If you win you have _some_ leverage.  As opposed to none.  Your choice.”

_Your choice._

“My choice…” Sam said slowly.  Then said, “Why’re you givin me _a choice,_ spirit?”

The spirit stared at him.  “Because I am fair,” it replied after a moment.  “My world is fair, Sam, son of John.  Harsh, yes.  But fair.”

“Sure,” Sam said.  “But you don’t care really about that.”

The spirit said nothing.

Sam watched it quietly.  Then said.  “I’m not makin any choice.”

“What do you mean?” the spirit asked.

Sam smiled.  “I _mean,”_ he said.  “That I’m leavin it all up to _you.”_

The spirit was glaring at him.  “And that means _what,_ exactly?” it asked.

Sam smiled.  “It means exactly what it means,” he said.  “I’m leavin the choice of how we fight…up to you.”

The spirit shrugged.  “So we fight as Aaron and Sam,” it said.

Sam shrugged back.  “Okay,” he replied.

“So I’m giving you the spell now,” the spirit said.  “Repeat after me-“

Sam held up a hand.  “Nope,” he said.

The spirit stared at him.  _“What?”_

“No spell,” Sam said, smiling.  “I’m not takin the option of usin that spirit blood you’re so eager to get your hands on off the table.”

“Ah,” the spirit replied.  “So then you fight me as _spirit.”_ And suddenly it flickered, Aaron disappearing for a moment.  And Sam saw something else.  Just a flicker, for less than a second, but he had the impression of a large dark shape, a human shape but inhumanly large and with an animal head with long pointed ears.  Slanted yellow eyes, dully glowing.  A snarl for a smile, a flash of pointed white teeth.

“What _are_ you,” Sam whispered.  And shaking suddenly, chilled to the bone.

But the figure of Aaron was back.  It smiled.  “If you call upon your dark blood to fight me… _that_ is what you fight,” it said.  “The form in which I walked your world, as I was feared and worshipped by your ancestors.”

Sam swallowed.   “I thought you were a lost soul,” he said, after a moment.

The spirit smiled.  “I didn’t say I was a _human_ soul.”

Sam’s lips were dry.  He licked them unthinkingly.  Saw the spirit’s eyes on this, smiling. 

“That blood of yours is powerful, Sam, but you don’t know how to tap it,” the spirit said.  “Not yet.  And you will need it, in a fight like that.  You’re a smart boy, sure, but can you learn yourself in time?  That’s the question, isn’t it?” 

Sam swallowed again.  But then said, “I won’t need it.”

The spirit stared at him.  “What?” it asked.

“Because you’re just fightin me as _Aaron_ ,” Sam said _._   “Right?  Like you said.”  And he smiled.

The spirit glared at him.   Sam was grinning now.  “You figured it out, huh?” he said.

The spirit didn’t reply.

Sam snorted.  “Whatever.  So don’t say anythin.  Doesn’t change things.”  He met the spirit’s gaze, held it.  “If you fight me as Aaron, I’ll fight you as Sam,” he said.  “Just Sam the kid.  No dark blood.  But we’re not lockin down under any spell to do that.  Cause I’m gonna need my supernatural edge _afterwards_ , to get myself out of here _.”_   He paused, watching the spirit closely now.  “But if you choose to fight as somethin _else_ …then I do, too.  I _match_ you, spirit.”

The spirit was quiet.

“I don’t go supernatural unless you do,” Sam continued.  _“That’s_ my promise, spirit. _”_   And he felt the ring of those words in his ears, suddenly.   Those words, spoken aloud in this place.  Binding him.

The spirit looked furious.  “If I went there… _”_ it said, “…you’d have no chance against me, Sam!”

“Then I fight you to the death,” Sam said. 

“To _your_ death,” the spirit said.  “And do you think I _want_ that?  I chose this boy’s form to _protect_ you, you little idiot!”

“Unless I learn myself in time,” Sam said.  “Right?  You said that.”

The spirit was silent.

“That’s the question,” Sam said.  “Isn’t it?”

The spirit sighed.  “You’re exhausting, _”_ it said.  Sam grinned.   The spirit shrugged.  “Fine,” it said.  “There’s a slim chance you could figure out how to fight me as a supernatural being… _very_ slim, I might add.  And sure, there’s a chance you might win like that…again, a _very_ slim chance.  But if you go there Sam, you’ll become one of us.  Even if you defeat me, you will lose yourself nonetheless.  You call upon your supernatural blood to fight me…the supernatural will have you.”

Sam felt tears rising suddenly.  He ruthlessly tamped them down.  “The supernatural has me anyway,” he said.  “Callin on that blood is the only way I’m gonna get myself out of here when I’m done with you.  And go back to Dean.”

“You won’t be able to go back to Dean,” the spirit said.  “Not in the way you want.”

Sam was crying, he couldn’t help it.  But he smiled at the spirit, through tears. “But at least that’ll be my choice,” he said.  “A choice that has nothin to do with _you.”_  

The spirit stared at him.  “I didn’t _have_ to offer you a choice,” it said eventually.  “Why do you not accept my generosity, Sam?”

“Because you want me to,” Sam said.

The spirit was silent.

“Do I go back to Dean or not…” Sam continued.  “That’s the _only_ choice I’m prepared to make, spirit!”

The spirit watched him gravely.  “You only say that because you haven’t _felt_ that blood yet,” it replied.  “You’ve been locked away from yourself by your father’s warding spell and by your own ignorance of what happened to you.  You see yourself standing triumphant over my fallen body, asking yourself _‘Do I risk returning to Dean?’_  But that choice assumes you’re still _you,_ Sam, still capable of even thinking that way...and I say to you, if you tap into that dark blood of yours, you won’t recognize yourself anymore.”

“Maybe I will _finally_ recognize myself,” Sam said.  “If you force me to match you.”  And he smiled past the bitterness in his mouth.

The spirit stared at him, Aaron’s blue eyes, darkening.  “Child,” the spirit said eventually, “I want you more with every word you say to me.  Very well.  I accept your terms.  Yet again.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“So consider me warned,” Sam said.   And he felt every muscle in his body tensing up, coiled to spring.  “Time to fight, spirit,” he whispered.

“Yes,” the spirit whispered back.  And it lunged forward.

***

The two boys were circling each other, panting.  They’d grappled, traded blows.  Sam had taken hits to the ribs, the chest, the face.  He’d landed a few on the Aaron-thing too, but hadn’t been concentrating on that.  It was skill, not brute strength that was his advantage here.  He was trying to get in close, to grab the creature and take it down.   Without getting his lights punched out.

Sam crouched then leaped forward.

Another right, aimed for his jaw.  Sam avoided it, just barely.  The blow glanced against the bruise already rising there.  Sam danced back.

“You tryin to knock me out?” he asked.

The spirit smiled.  “Yes,” it said.  “It will be easier to possess you if you’re unconscious.”

Sam considered this.  Then leaped forward again.  Grappled the other boy, hard.  The real life Aaron was strong, with heavy, well conditioned muscles, more muscular than Dean even.  Sam remembered noticing this from when he’d first got to know Aaron, and appreciating it (quietly).   Aaron was definitely above Sam’s weight class, even though Sam was taller.   But although Sam was slender, he was stronger than he looked, with muscles like steel wire and lethally trained.  Dean and their dad had seen to that.  Sam had been taught to take down opponents larger than him from an early age. 

Time to do this.

Sam caught the Aaron-thing, brought a knee up, tripped it, brought them both down to the ground.  Now they were struggling fiercely, Sam trying to get the Aaron-thing into a choke hold.  But then he felt his hair grabbed, an iron grip, pulling his head back painfully. 

Sam swore.  He reached up and grabbed the creature’s hand, jabbing his thumb just under the middle knuckle and digging in. 

“Ow!”  The Aaron-thing released Sam’s hair.  Sam scrambled away and got to his feet.  The Aaron-thing stood up too.  Gazed at Sam.  “You fight like a girl,” Sam said.

The spirit smiled.  “I have been _,”_ it said. 

“When?” Sam asked.

“Eighteenth century,” the spirit said.  “I possessed a pretty little French girl.  We ended up here, though.  In Louisiana, as you know it today.  Fascinating place.  But that life was cut short, unfortunately.  And the _next_ vessel I managed to procure was an aging farmer with a heart condition.  _He_ didn’t last long either.”

“Huh,” Sam said.   “How’d you die?  The first time, I mean.”

“Childbirth,” the spirit said.

“Childbirth!” Sam said.  “Spirits c’n have _kids?”_

“Once we’re in a human body, we can do everything humans do,” the spirit said.  “Including procreate.  Where do you think the humans with psychic abilities come from?”  It was crouching again, eyes focused on Sam.  “Once I’m in you, Sam, I intend to live a long, full life.  As will _you_ of course, vicariously…and it could be a good life, sweet boy.  We’ll sow some wild oats of course…but we’ll eventually find ourselves a wife… make babies…” it smiled.   “Maybe we’ll even look up Rhonda again.”

“That’ll never happen,” Sam said coldly.  “Even if you _do_ possess me, Dean won’t let you get far.  He’ll _destroy_ you.”

The spirit shrugged.  “Somehow I don’t think Dean will be able to bring himself to kill me, even if he has the opportunity.  Not while I’m wearing your body.  No.  Somehow…I think I’ll end up with _that_ perk, too.  The one you’ve been reserving for yourself.  Dean in all his gorgeousness…writhing under me, moaning…”  The spirit was grinning.

Sam snarled.   He leapt forward, grabbed the spirit, found the choke hold he was looking for.   Started bearing down.  

The Aaron-thing was thrashing around, its chest heaving with effort.  Sam contained its struggles, feeling the strength of years of training, imposed on him as a condition of life and enforced by two merciless wills, beaten into him, guilted into him, but rising up now and focused on this moment.

“You might _look_ like Aaron,” Sam hissed to the spirit.  “But you sure can’t wrestle like him.” 

The Aaron-thing’s lips were curled back from its teeth.  “Put a sword in my hand…or a battle-axe…you’d be _meat,_ boy,” it gasped.

“Good thing we’re not playin Medieval Times, then,” Sam said.  He tightened his arm around the creature’s neck.  The Aaron-thing was purple now, its eyes bulging. 

“I’m killin you, spirit,” Sam whispered to it.  “Time to surrender.  Give me your name.”

“No,” the spirit gasped.  “Never.”

“It’s death for you then,” Sam said.

The spirit was still struggling, but more and more feebly.  “I die…here…you’ll never be able to find your way back,” it gasped.  “You’ll be trapped here on the supernatural plane.”

“I’ll find my way out,” Sam said.  “Eventually.”

“You’ll be attacked,” the spirit choked, “by others of my kind.  Or worse, Dean will come for you.”

“How’s that worse?” Sam asked.  

“You don’t want Dean coming for you,” the spirit whispered.  “Not unwarded.”

Sam thought about this.  Dean trancing himself into the spirit realm to find Sam, his soul laid bare to supernatural eyes.  A rogue hunter, subject to redress. 

No.  The spirit was right.  That couldn’t happen.  Sam’s grip loosened.

The spirit immediately bucked, trying with Aaron’s heavier weight to knock Sam off his feet.  Sam nearly fell but recovered just in time, shifting his stance and wrenching the spirit’s left arm, which he’d twisted behind its back, violently upwards.  He felt something tear.  Heard it, too.

“Aaagh!”  the Aaron-thing shrieked. 

“Got two tendons there,” Sam said.  He’d re-established his hold around the Aaron-thing’s neck, tight but not quite a stranglehold yet.  “Rotator cuff _and_ biceps-tendon,” Sam said.  “Torn right through’s my guess.  That arm’s useless now, spirit.  And I don’t know what _spirit_ part that stands in for, but I’m pretty sure _that’s_ hurtin too.  You’re done, spirit,” he continued.  “Time to give me your name.”

“You little wretch,” the spirit hissed.  Tears of pain were streaming from its eyes.  “I should cripple _you.”_

Sam laughed.   “You’d never.”  He was murmuring now, his lips brushing the Aaron-thing’s ear.   “You had your chance to dirty fight but you’re were bein careful with this body of mine, weren’t you?  I could tell.”

The spirit laughed, painfully.  “That body of _mine,”_ it said.   “I’m not stupid enough to wreck my new home.”

“It’s _never_ gonna be yours,” Sam said.  And now the stranglehold grip.  “I’m not lettin go this time,” he said.   

The Aaron-thing bucked against him.  Sam bore down, felt the creature’s throat spasming under his arm as its windpipe was crushed.  He hissed again, into its ear.  “I’ve won spirit, admit it.  _Now give me your name!”_

The Aaron-thing wasn’t struggling now, just hangling limply in Sam’s grip.   But then it whispered, “No.”  And suddenly it changed, the thing under Sam’s arm transforming, growing impossibly, lengthening, broadening, Sam now sprawled over a large, broad back.  Sam sprang away just in time, barely finding his feet. 

The thing whirled around, clearly intending to grab him.  But it couldn’t raise one arm.  It halted.  Then spoke, but not through its mouth.  The spirit voice, rubbing darkly against Sam’s mind.

 _I can’t use it,_ it said.  _Not in_ any _form.  You’ve damaged me, you little sodomite!_

“What’d you expect?” Sam panted.  “You knew that when you signed up for this fight.  Damage to the avatar is damage to you.  You can’t get out of our deal anymore than I can.”

 _Laughter.  Point taken, my boy.  Why at this very moment your brother is crouched over your unconscious body, wringing his hands over the bruises rising on your skin._ And suddenly the creature raised its good arm and threw Sam violently to the ground. 

 _And soon he will have more cause for grief._  And now a large hand gripping Sam’s throat. 

Sam lay there stunned, his head spinning from the sharp impact.  He gasped painfully against the weight of the hand on his throat.  Stared up at the face of the beast before him, a canine face with a long dark snout, black lips curled back from sharp white teeth.  A dog’s face, but _this_ dog was no friend to man.  It stared down at Sam with the urbane expression of a creature who made its home among people, but with a face inhabited by the pure, cruel, predatory beauty of a wolf. 

The creature cocked it head.

 _So, arrogant child…tables turned and all that.  Do you like me like this?  I was worshipped as a god you know.  Before that agreement_ _you hunters are so devoted to._

“You’re freakin hideous!”  Sam gasped.

 _Laughter.  But much bigger than you, wouldn’t you say?_ The creature dipped its head delicately, leaning in.  Sam closed his eyes.   He felt the touch of a warm, wet tongue on his face.  He shuddered.   

The mind voice.   _You look pretty helpless down there Sam.  Deliciously so, I might add.  My deliciously vulnerable human boy.  And I’m still being fair with you, you know.  Waiting on you.  You were supposed to_ match _me, remember?  Where’s that dark blood of yours, rising to the occasion?_

“Fuck off!”  Sam hissed.  He was thinking the same thing, his mind casting about frantically, trying to find something, anything, that could counter this.  Transform him into Godzilla or something.

But there was nothing.  He felt terrifyingly ordinary.

_So rude.  Do you regret daring me, my dear one?  No matter.  I’ll have your surrender now._

“No!” Sam hissed.

_Laughter.  Surrender or death, weren’t those your words?  But before you choose death Sam, remember what that means for Dean.  He holds your mortal body in his arms as we speak.  The second you die, you become a revenant._

“Dean can defend himself,” Sam said.  He was thinking hard.  There had to be some leverage here…something…what had the spirit said earlier?   When it been inside Rhonda, when Sam had first negotiated their deal.  There had been something…something…

The mind voice again.  _You’re willing to bet Dean’s life on that?  He’s a fierce warrior, yes, but I will catch him at a complete disadvantage.  All I have to do, as soon as I’m in your dead body, is turn my head and sink my teeth into his throat._

Sam was still, frozen at the vision of this.

The dog-thing cocked its head.  _If you force me to kill you Sam, Dean’s death will follow in seconds.  And don’t think for a moment that you will be reunited_ here.  _No, Dean’s soul still inhabits his body.  He will pass on immediately, into the void._ He _will find his true death, but_ you _will be stuck_ here, _our newest citizen of ‘nowhere land.’  Without the aid and comfort of your brother._  

Sam felt tears rising. 

There was no way out.   He closed his eyes.

_Dean.  I tried.  I’m sorry._

Time to surrender.  Sweet oblivion.

But no.  Just wait.

That heavy hand on his throat.  Would Sam have had _any_ chance, fighting _this_ creature?   Sam opened his eyes, stared up at it.   No.   No chance.

But.

The spirit had _given_ Sam a chance _._   A _choice,_ to fight it as Aaron.  And not only that…it had _wanted_ Sam to fight it as Aaron.  It had tried to _sell_ Sam on that.  And it had even been willing to lock itself down, spelling itself away from the ability to transform itself into _this_ thing, if Sam agreed to subject himself to the same spell. 

This situation…Sam helpless, trapped under the impossibly heavy hand of an ancient god…

The spirit had been strangely reluctant to end up here. 

_Why?_

Sam needed more time. 

“I’m not surrendering to you like that,” Sam said.

Yellow eyes, staring down at him silently.

“You chose Aaron because you knew it would be easier for me to surrender to you if you looked like him,” Sam continued. 

_You had your chance to surrender to Aaron._

“No,” Sam said.  “I had my chance to _fight_ Aaron.  And I was winning, too.  In a _fair_ fight.  Until _you_ turned tail.  _Literally.”_

The dog-thing looked offended.

_I didn’t ‘turn tail.’_

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “You did.  Turned tail like a scared little pup.  And I’m not surrenderin to some _pup!”_   And he spat in the dog-thing’s face.

The creature looked at him. 

 _You’re just stalling, child.  And you_ _have no one but yourself to blame for this, you know.  You dared me to do this…and so here we are.  And thus a choice before you that involves me after all.  Surrender or die._

The hand tightened painfully around Sam’s throat.

Sam was coughing.

“Only – only Aaron,” he gasped.  “I’ll surrender to him.  Like you said I would.”

The dog-thing cocked its head.   

_You promise?_

“Yes,” Sam said.  “I…I promise.”

The creature, looking at him.  Then its voice, triumphant.

_Very well.  Your promise binds you Sam, as you well know.  Don’t try to fight me anymore or our deal’s off.  And your brother will be the one who pays for that.  I’ll make sure of it._

“I know,” Sam whispered.  Tears were in his eyes again.  “I won’t fight you.”  He closed his eyes.  “Just give me Aaron,” he whispered.  “I’ll surrender to him.”

A pause.  But then the mind-voice, gentle now. 

 _Alright, sweet child._   _I’ll be your friend for you.  I grant you that one last boon, before the change._

Aaron was laying over Sam, propped up on his good arm, his body pressing Sam’s body into the field.   He grimaced.  “You did one fuckin number on my arm, Sam.  Shit.”

“I know,” Sam whispered.  “I’m sorry.”

“Never mind,” Aaron said.  “It’s not gonna matter soon anyway.”  And the blue eyes, staring down.   Aaron’s voice, deeper this time.  “You know…I’ve been wanting this.”

“I know,” Sam said.

Aaron shifted and now Sam felt the bulge of his cock.  “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said.  “A lot.”

“Fuckin me?” Sam said.

Aaron smiled briefly.  “Yeah,” he said. 

“Is that how I surrender to you?” Sam asked.

“No,” Aaron said.  “It’s words you have to say.”

“What are they?” Sam asked.

Aaron looked at him.  “Are we doin this now?”

“No,” Sam said.  “I just wanted to know what they were, that’s all.”

Aaron, looking at him.  “I think we’re doin this now,” he said.  “You’re just tryin to stall me again.”

“I’m scared,” Sam whispered.  “Please, Aaron.”

Aaron’s eyes softened.  “It’ll be okay,” he said.  “I don’t want to hurt you, Sam.  And I won’t, as long as you don’t give me any reason to.”

“And you won’t hurt Dean,” Sam said.

Aaron sighed.  “No,” he said.  “I won’t hurt that asshole brother of yours.  I’m gonna look out for him.  Like I promised to.” 

“Thank you,” Sam whispered.   He was blinking away tears.

Then felt Aaron’s lips, on his cheek.  “Now for your surrender,” Aaron murmured.  “Let’s get this done.”

“What do I do?” Sam whispered. 

“Put your hands on me,” Aaron said.  “On my bare skin.” 

Sam hesitated.  Then slipped his hands under Aaron’s shirt.  Felt the warm, bare skin, the strong muscles of Aaron’s back.   “Now what?” Sam whispered.

Aaron had dropped his face into the curve of Sam’s throat.  “Now say you belong to me, body, mind and soul.  For the rest of your mortal life.”

Sam tilted his face up, felt Aaron’s lips on his throat.  “Aaron-“ he whispered.

“…Yeah?”

“Kiss me first,” Sam whispered.  He felt Aaron smile against his skin.  “Stallin again,” Aaron murmured.

“Please,” Sam whispered.  “Let me just have that.”

“You’ll have plenty of me,” Aaron said.  “Once we’re back in the world.  We’re gonna track down everyone you ever wanted to fuck.  Starting with Dean.”

Sam was crying.  “It won’t be the same.  Please Aaron.”

Aaron’s breath was speeding up.  “Well,” he said, “Alright.”  And his mouth moved to Sam’s mouth. 

Sam opened his mouth.  This Aaron was kissing him as he’d imagined the _real_ Aaron would have done, a little tentatively at first, but then moving right in.  Aaron put his tongue in Sam’s mouth.  Sam sucked on it gently, then pulled back.  “Put your hand on my cock,” he whispered.

Aaron was breathing hard.  He made a motion to reach for Sam’s cock but suddenly collapsed on the ground, holding his injured shoulder.   “ _Shit,_ Sam,” he said, through his teeth.

Sam was up on one elbow, gazing down at him.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.   Aaron’s pained face, looking up at him.  Sam leaned forward and kissed Aaron’s mouth, saw the blue eyes close.  “Here,” he whispered.  He took Aaron’s good hand and placed it on his cock.  Felt the other boy’s fingers curving around it.

“You’re hard,” Aaron murmured.   Sam was kissing him, Aaron’s hard, smooth mouth.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered against that mouth.  “You made me hard for you.”

“Maybe we _should_ fuck,” Aaron said.  “Before I possess you.”

Sam smiled.  Slipped his hands under Aaron’s shirt again.  “Why do I touch you?” he asked.  “Before I say the words?”  He dragged his thumbs lightly over Aaron’s nipples.  Saw the effect of this on Aaron’s face.

“Because you don’t know my name,” Aaron answered absently.  

“So touchin you…that takes the place of sayin your name?”  Sam asked.  And stroking Aaron’s nipples, very gently.

“Yeah…” Aaron breathed.  “Sam…”

“Feels good, huh?” Sam murmured.  “C’n I put my tongue on you?”

“Sure,” Aaron said.

Sam lifted up Aaron’s shirt, exposing his broad chest.  Leaned forward and lapped gently at a nipple, hearing Aaron’s soft sound of pleasure.  He moved his mouth to Aaron’s other nipple, sucking it back, harder this time.  Aaron moaned.

“Why’s touchin so important?” Sam asked.  He was busily licking at Aaron’s nipple now, teasing it into a sharp point.  Aaron was gasping.  Sam bit down on him gently.  “Tell me,” he whispered.  And then sucking Aaron’s nipple back hard between his teeth.

“Oh!”  Aaron gasped.  “Sam-“

Sam was still, his lips just resting on Aaron’s chest now, waiting. 

“…Cause it connects you to me,” Aaron said after a moment.  “It’s another way of knowin me.”  And then moaning as Sam immediately rewarded this, his tongue busy again.

“Knowin…who I’m promising myself to?” Sam asked.  He was biting Aaron’s nipples hard, first one and then the other.  Aaron was gasping.  His head had fallen back.  Sam’s mouth moved to Aaron’s throat, his lips opening against the salty skin.

“Yeah…” Aaron breathed.   He turned his head.  “Sam.  Kiss me again.”

Sam smiled against his throat.  “What do you say?” he whispered.

“Please,” Aaron whispered.

Sam kissed him on the throat.  Licked him.  Aaron shuddered.   Sam trailed his mouth over Aaron’s jaw, found his mouth again.  Kissed him, Aaron’s mouth opening.  He felt Aaron’s good hand on his cheek.  Just a light touch, holding Sam there.

“You _are_ bein gentle with me,” Sam murmured to him.  He was licking Aaron’s mouth.  “’N’ you didn’t have to be.”

“I wanted to be,” Aaron whispered. 

“I know,” Sam murmured.  “It was your chance.”  And kissing him.

“What do you mean?” the other boy asked.

“It was your chance,” Sam repeated.  “To be the good guy for once.  To be _fair._   Tellin yourself you’re doin the right thing, by me.”

Aaron opened his eyes.  “What are you talking about?”

Sam smiled at him.  “To be _gentle_ with me…like you never were with your _own_ brother.”

The blue eyes on him, sharp now.  “ _What?”_ Aaron asked.

Sam smiled.  He laid his hands out flat against Aaron’s sides, clasping him firmly.   “I know who you are,” he said.  And gazed down at the creature in front of him.  “I know your _name,_ spirit.”

Aaron’s mouth opened.  He started to sit up.  “No,” he said.  “Don’t-“

“-You are Set,” Sam said.  And pressing down.  Suddenly he felt his palms tingle against the creature’s skin, a shock of electricity passing between them.

Aaron froze.   “No,” he croaked.  “Sam, wait-“

Sam leaned forward, his hands like weights.  “I know you,” he said again.  “Your name is Set.”

The creature flickered, the dog-thing reappearing for a moment.  But then Aaron was back.  “No-“ he said.

“You are Set,” Sam said inexorably.  The creature flickered into sight again.  But then again Aaron, struggling to sit up.  Sam leaned forward, pressing down on Aaron’s ribs mercilessly.  His hands were hot now, like he was holding them against a radiator, the sensation almost unbearable.  “You are Set,” he hissed.  “Spirit, I name you _._ Spirit, I call you. _You are Set!”_

The dog-thing was back, its powerful man-body lying prone on the grass under Sam’s hands.   Its face turned to Sam in a snarl.

_You little shit.  How did you figure that out?_

Sam smiled.  “From what you said when I first saw you,” he said.  He removed his hands from the creature’s body, wiped them on his jeans.  “You, as you originally ‘walked the earth,’ right?  And from somethin else you said to me.  When you were still in Rhonda.”

_I saw the pyramids rise._

Sam saw the creature’s recollection of this, in its face.

He smiled.  “You’re the Egyptian god Set,” he said.  “The one with the dog’s head.  You’re the god who murdered his own brother Osiris, the ruling god of Egypt.  ‘N’ then you tried to rule Egypt in his place.  But you sucked at it, didn’t you?  The Egyptians hated you.”

The creature sat up.  Looked at him.  

_How-_

Sam shrugged.  “Library,” he said.  “Under ‘E’ for Egyptology.”

The creature glared at him. 

_They didn’t hate me._

“Oh yes they did,” Sam said.  “I read all about it.  And they eventually drove you out, didn’t they.  Into the desert.”

The creature looked at him.  Then rose to its feet, facing Sam. 

 _I_ chose _to go.  I_ ruled _the desert._

Sam got to his feet too.  He shrugged again.  “Sure.  Whatever gets you through the night.”

 _I was a_ god. _I was worshipped!_

“Out of fear,” Sam said.   “Worshipped so you’d _stay away.”_

The creature bristled.  Sam thought for a moment it would spring at him.  He held himself still.  Saw the creature visibly take a breath. 

_Fine.  So you know me.  It makes no difference.  You still owe me your surrender.  As promised._

“Not to you,” Sam said.  “I’m not surrenderin to _you._   I promised I’d surrender to _Aaron._   Remember?”

_Laughter.  Very well, then._

And the creature flickered, its image suddenly translucent, the shadow of Aaron appearing within it.

Sam held up a hand.  “No,” he said. 

The creature was solid again.  It stared at Sam, its dog’s mouth opening.

_What did you do!_

Sam smiled.  “I _know_ you now,” he said.  “You were worried about that, weren’t you?  Of me figurin that out.  But now I call you by your _true_ name, spirit.  And that’s how you’ll always appear to me.  Goin forward.”

The creature stared at him, its broad chest heaving.   Sam noticed suddenly that it had a tail, lashing furiously.   Inhumanly large hands, clenched into fists.  Paws for feet, with long black claws.  Those sharp white teeth.  And between powerful thighs, a huge dark cock, still hard.  If Sam got fucked with _that_ thing, it would kill him.

Sam tightened his stomach muscles, his whole body centering down.  He wasn’t going to show that thing that he was scared.

“No more Aaron,” Sam said.  “That’s done.  I forbid you that form, spirit.  _Aaron’s_ too good for you.  And that promise I made…to _him_ …that’s null ‘n’ void now too, of course.”  And he smiled at the dog-thing, tightly.  It snarled again.

_Little brat!   You can’t do that to me!_

Sam held his smile.  “Sure I can.  I’ve locked you down.  I’ve _named_ you, spirit.  Set, god of chaos and storms.  Murderer, traitor to your own family.   Desert demon, king of the wasteland.  I _know_ you now.  And when I call you, you’ll come to me just like that, just like the dog you are!”

The creature snarling.

_You don’t have the power to do that you arrogant little shit!_

“I do though,” Sam said.  He raised his hands.  “I have that power, in this place.  My _blood,_ remember?  I feel it now, spirit.  And I c’n _compel you!”_

And as Sam said this, he _did_ feel something.  A tingling, starting in his palms then spreading throughout his whole body, every cell within him tingling, opening, blooming like a flower under a dark sun.  A shocking energy expanding within him and he _saw,_ suddenly.  He _saw_ the world behind the illusion, this stage dressing of Sam’s recent life, this arena so carefully planned for his destruction.  A dark ocean of energy suddenly visible, swirling, stormy, with waves of unimaginable height and power roving across its surface like beasts of prey. 

A deadly ocean, not life giving.  Not the birthplace of life.  The repository of _in-between,_ of something, something trapped between the fullness of life and the unknown of the void, something hungry for life but contained away from it. 

Sam _saw_ that world now, but not with human eyes.  He saw from the _inside,_ the supernatural made known to him, storming through his blood, calling to it. 

And answered…because something, something within him was listening, answering, calling back. 

Darkness within Sam and without, and now known. 

“I’m here, spirit,” Sam whispered.  “I’m here with you.  I _see_ your world, spirit.”  And suddenly he was crying.  Because of something else he saw.

The supernatural with its dark, restless, ruthless energy, such vast power but invisible to the world, veiled from it.  

Contained beyond the veil, separated from the world by order of an ancient agreement, struck between unknown powers, obscured by myth and time.  An agreement protecting the world of people and animals and material things…the _natural_ world, allowed to progress in its own way, independent of this ocean of spirits and gods and magic.  Sam’s world, _not_ drowned, not disappearing beneath a supernatural tide.  Shielded behind a wall of stronger magic, an ancient wall, shored up by centuries of spell and prayer and protocol, by evolving schools of rational thought…and fiercely defended.  

By its guardians.  The hunters.

Like Sam’s brother.  Like Sam’s dad.  But not like Sam.

Because Sam wasn’t like them.  He _couldn’t be,_ somehow.   He’d always known that.  And now he saw why.

“I’m here with you,” Sam whispered sadly.  “And I c’n compel you, spirit.  I’ve won.  It’s over.”

The mind-voice. 

_It is not!_

“It is,” Sam said.  “See…I’m fightin you as _spirit,_ now.  And I’m stronger than you.”

The mind-voice.  _YOU ARE NOT!_  And the creature in front of Sam started flickering wildly, other forms appearing and disappearing within it with desperate speed, almost too quickly to see.  But no Aaron-form.   Sam stared at it quietly.  And he felt something in himself gathering together, focusing in.

A cold will, rising in him like ice, intent only on the task before it, and Sam’s tears forgotten now.  Put aside because of the task at hand, more important than other things. 

Like the fact that Sam had matched this spirit as promised, change for change, and what that meant.

_(Dean, could he go back to Dean anymore, with the supernatural now staining him like dye)._

But no matter.   He’d deal with that later.  Because first things first.  Teaching this asshole its place.

Coldness of will, coldness of mind.   Pure focus on the task at hand.  Sam understood this kind of thinking.  He was familiar with it, _raised_ with it, shall we say.

Being cold when you needed to be.  His dad had taught him that.  Say what you would about John, he’d at least taught Sam that.

Sam stared calmly at the spirit.  He waited.

The dog-thing was back.  A solid, immutable shape, standing in front of Sam snarling.

Sam smiled at it.  “Hi there.”

_FUCK YOU!_

Sam was laughing now.  Because… _I mean._  “Me figurin out your _real_ name wasn’t the only reason you were scared of me, was it?” he said.

_I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT!_

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  Then asked, “So whose blood do I carry?”

The dog-thing didn’t answer.  It stood there, glaring at him.

“Answer me,” Sam said.  Added, _“Set.”_

_I told you, I don’t know._

“But you get it, though,” Sam said.  “Don’t you?  This blood of mine…it’s not just my ticket to this place…it’s my season’s pass.”

_That blood will be MINE!_

“I don’t think so,” Sam said.  “See…I _feel_ that blood now, spirit.  Just like you said I would.  And it’s _dark_ blood, spirit.  Darker than yours.  It would be poison to you.”

_RIDICULOUS!_

“No,” Sam whispered.  He was shuddering suddenly, but not with fear.  Shocks of sensation, crackling through him like lightning, breaking through him, breaking him open, every cell of the illusory body that had contained him in this place now shattering open, avatar Sam gone suddenly, and his being, pure being, the consciousness of Sam, invisible as air but infinitely vast, riding free upon dark waves.

**_I SURF_ _YOUR WORLD, SPIRIT!_**

_NO!_

**_LAUGHTER!_ **

_I’LL_ KILL _YOU BOY!_

**_Not a boy,_ _asshole…not any longer._**

And consciousness of Sam, again cold, absolute zero, gathering, focusing in.  And trained now on a particular shivering, vibrating quality of energy, desperately flickering. 

_AAAGH!_

**_Hurts, huh?  I’ve won, spirit.  You’re doin what_ I _say, now._**

_NEVER!_

**_Laughter.  Time to honour our deal, spirit.  You’re takin me back to Dean._ **

_Dean won’t want you like this.  You’re an ABOMINATION, boy!_

**_Look who’s talkin.  And anyway, that’s between me ‘n’ Dean.  Not you._ **

_You didn’t win fairly. You_ tricked _me!  No more deal!_

**_Not true.  I pledged to fight human if YOU fought human.  But who decided not to stick with that?  And then I promised_ _to surrender to_ Aaron. _But where is he now?  See…that’s where YOUR choices got you, spirit._**

_I’m not taking you back to Dean.  You enjoy riding the waves of my world, Sam?  Then STAY here!_

A wild anger, rising like a tornado.  But then contained.  Just barely.

**_Take me back or I will KILL you, Set!_ **

_You can try, boy!_

Anger.

**_Fine.  Time to meet your true death._ **

And now a pure, cold, furious intent, focused on the shivering energy named Set, focused on it like a laser.

 _AAAAGH!  YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!  I AM A_ GOD!

**_God, dog, all the same thing.  Goodbye, spirit._ **

_NO!_

**_Laughter._ **

And consciousness of Sam now gathering like a spear, white-cold energy rising up from the viscous dark depths of the ocean, drawing that ocean into itself, funnelling it, channelling it, a lightning rod of surgical steel suddenly visible against the swirling blackness and stabbing into the presence before it.

_AAAGH!_

**_Take me back or DIE, Set!_ **

_IT IS_ YOU _WHO WILL DIE, BOY!  AND THEN I WILL FEAST UPON YOUR BROTHER!_

And the presence suddenly welling up, an enormous red-black cloud with the roiling, deadly energy of a desert storm…engulfing, smothering…

Consciousness of Sam desperately disengaging, regrouping, gathering itself again.  And stabbing.

_AAAGH!  YOU LITTLE SHIT!_

**_I’m stronger than you, Set!_ **

_WE’LL SEE, BOY!_

And now the two of them in final battle, a hurricane of shrieking red-black energy swirling around the freezing blue-white spear impaled in its centre, consciousness of Sam trapped within the eye of the storm, desperately fighting to hold position, to keep the spirit pinned, to just _hold on_ until that swirling energy faltered, turned into the thrashing of death throes.  To hold in silent agony, clasped to his enemy in intimate, mortal embrace, only vaguely aware of the gigantic dark waves rising roaring around them.

Agony, taking over.

And consciousness of Sam calling out, a final whisper against the storm.

_Dean…I’m comin back to you, okay?  I am.  This thing…it’s dyin, Dean.   It’s dyin…I c’n feel it!  But I need some help to hold on here, Dean, just a little help, Dean, please, help me, oh god, PLEASE…DEAN…_

Suddenly a new voice.

**SAMMY?  SAMMY WINCHESTER?  IS THAT YOU?**

And everything stopped.   

The hurricane, gone like it had never been.  And the ocean frozen like a photograph, black waves suddenly motionless. 

The voice.

**SAMMY MY BOY.  THAT’S _YOU,_ ISN’T IT?  JOHN WINCHESTER’S SON.  WHAT DO YOU DO HERE?**

The voice of the dog-god.

_Azazel!_

The new voice, cold as space.

**SET.  WHAT BUSINESS DO YOU TRANSACT WITH MY SAMMY?**

_I didn’t know, Azazel!  I didn’t know he was yours!_

**FOOL, WHOSE BLOOD DID YOU THINK HE CARRIES?  AND YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD POSSESS IT FOR YOURSELF?**

_I’m sorry, Azazel, please.  Forgive me._

**I DON’T THINK SO.  YOU HAVE TRESPASSED, SET.  MEDDLED IN SOMETHING THAT WAS NOT YOURS TO TOUCH.**

_Please Azazel, I didn’t KNOW!   I would have left him alone if I’d known!  Be fair with me, PLEASE!_

**FAIR.  AH.  WELL…SAMMY WAS _WINNING,_ YOU KNOW, WHEN I SHOWED UP.  YOU’D BE DEAD RIGHT NOW IF I HADN’T INTERRUPTED YOUR LITTLE TETE-A-TETE.  THAT _WAS_ RATHER UNFAIR OF ME, I ADMIT.  SO I’LL STEP BACK.**

_…NO!_

**SET, I MUST DEFER TO MY SAMMY.  IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO GO.  THE VOID CALLS YOU HOME.**

_NO, PLEASE!  AZAZEL!_

**I GRIEVE, BROTHER.  BUT YOU CANNOT STAY HERE, KNOWING WHAT YOU NOW KNOW ABOUT MY BOY, HERE.  THAT KNOWLEDGE IS ONLY FOR THE ELECT, UNTIL THE FINAL HOURS.  SO SAY WHATEVER LAST WORDS YOU WISH TO SAY.  AND THEN GOODBYE.**

Silence.

But then the spirit’s voice, gentle suddenly.

_Child.  I pity you._

Sam.  

**_What!  WHY?_ **

The spirit voice.

_Because what lies before you is far worse than possession by me.  Goodbye, Sam._

**_Wait!_ **

But the spirit was saying other words now.  They rose up like the call of an ancient horn, a final message across empty desert sands.   Then died away.

Silence.

**_…Set?_ **

**SET’S GONE, MY BOY.  IT’S JUST YOU AND ME NOW.**

**_Who are you?_ **

**I’M YOUR TRUE DADDY.  BUT YOU’VE JUMPED THE GUN, SAMMY.  YOU’RE NOT SCHEDULED TO MEET ME FOR A FEW YEARS, YET.**

**_…I don’t understand._ **

**YOU’RE NOT MEANT TO, MY BOY.  NOT RIGHT NOW.  BUT DON’T FRET.  EVERYTHING WILL BE MADE CLEAR TO YOU IN TIME.**

**_But-_ **

**QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS.  YOU’RE A CURIOUS ONE, AREN’T YOU?   IMPATIENT.  AND _CUNNING_ TOO, THAT’S RATHER NICE TO SEE.  I LOOK FORWARD TO MEETING THE MAN YOU WILL BECOME, SAMMY.  WHEN WE’RE BOTH READY OF COURSE.  AND THEN YOU WILL HAVE YOUR ANSWERS.**

**_I think I’m ready for those answers now._ **

**LAUGHTER.  MAYBE SO.  BUT I’M NOT READY TO PROVIDE THEM.  IT’S TIME TO TAKE YOU BACK, SAMMY.  BACK TO YOUR WAITING LOVER…OR _BROTHER,_ SHOULD I SAY?  THAT DEAN…TSK TSK.  HE’S NOT QUITE THE PURE SWORD OF THE ANGELS WE WERE EXPECTING, IS HE?  JOHN FAILED, THERE.**

**_What?_ **

**NEVER MIND.  YOU MAY HAVE A FEW MORE YEARS OF FORBIDDEN LOVE, MY BOY.  THAT’S AN INTERESTING DEVELOPMENT AND I’LL LET IT BE, FOR NOW.  AND I’LL EVEN PROVIDE MYSELF IN PLACE OF SET, FOR THAT ROLE YOU HAD IN MIND FOR HIM, YOUR SUPERNATURAL GUARD DOG.  I’LL SEE THAT YOU AND DEAN AREN’T BOTHERED BY THE LESSER OF MY KIND.  YOU MAY STILL HUNT, WITHOUT THREAT OF REDRESS.**

**_Why would you do that?_ **

**BECAUSE I WANT TO, ISN’T THAT REASON ENOUGH?  WHY DO YOU WANT TO FUCK YOUR OWN BROTHER, SAMMY?**

**_…None of your business._ **

**LAUGHTER.  YOU DON’T REALLY _KNOW_ WHY, DO YOU?  BUT THAT’S OKAY.  YOU AND I…WE WANT, SO WE TAKE.  NO NEED REALLY, TO LOOK CLOSER THAN THAT.  I UNDERSTAND YOU, SAMMY.  YOU’RE MORE MY SON THAN JOHN’S.**

**_I don’t even know you!_**

**AH.  NO MATTER. YOU WILL.  CONVERSATION OVER, MY BOY.  TIME TO GO BACK, NOW.**

**_Wait!_ **

**WAIT?  I THOUGHT YOU WERE EAGER TO RETURN TO YOUR BROTHER.**

**_What am I goin back AS?  I need to know that first.  I don’t want to hurt Dean._ **

**HURT DEAN.  HMM.  I THINK THAT’S INEVITABLE.  BUT IF IT EASES YOUR MIND, SAMMY, YOU WILL BE RETURNING TO THE WORLD AS A SIMPLE MORTAL.  I’M PUTTING THAT BLOOD OF MINE TO SLEEP AGAIN, YOU WEREN’T MEANT TO HEAR ITS CALL SO SOON.**

**_So I’m not goin back changed?_ **

**CHANGED…WELL, THAT’S A RELATIVE TERM, ISN’T IT?  USELESSLY SUBJECTIVE.**

**_What does that mean!_ **

**IT MEANS WHAT YOU WANT IT TO MEAN.  WHATEVER YOU INTEND IT TO MEAN, SAMMY.**

**_That’s not an answer!_ **

**LAUGHTER.  NO, MAYBE NOT.  BUT IT’S ALL THE ANSWER YOU’RE GOING TO GET.  IT’S TIME TO GO, SAMMY.  EVEN A BEING AS POWERFUL AS I CAN’T HOLD THIS LITTLE POCKET OUT OF TIME INDEFINITELY, AND I WANT TO KEEP RUMOURS OF YOUR PRESENCE IN MY WORLD ON THE DOWN LOW.  SPIRITS ARE SUCH TERRIBLE GOSSIPS AND YOU IN PARTICULAR ARE MEANT TO BE A… _REVELATION,_ HA, HA.**

**_What?_ **

**NEVER MIND, I’M JUST HAVING A LITTLE FUN.  IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU, MY BOY.  YOU’VE TURNED OUT EVEN BETTER THAN I’D HOPED.  I LOOK FORWARD TO OUR NEXT ENCOUNTER.**

**_…Will I remember you?  Or this?_ **

**LIKE THE MEMORY OF A DREAM, NO MORE.**

**_But I want-_ **

**YOU WANT.  I KNOW.  YOUR TRAGIC FLAW.  OH WELL.  MIND YOU, I DON’T DISCOURAGE IT, NOT THAT THAT WOULD MAKE A DIFFERENCE TO YOU.  BUT _DESIRE_ IS NOT DESTRUCTIVE TO OUR CAUSE.  _OH_ NO.  THERE WILL BE A USE FOR THAT WANTON DESIRE OF YOURS, SAMMY.  THAT WANTONESS, IN YOU.  I WILL SEE TO IT.**

**_…Okay…look.  I want to know what’s goin on.  Okay?  You’re just teasin me now and that isn’t fair!  I want to UNDERSTAND this!_ **

**LAUGHTER.  I RESPECT YOUR THIRST FOR KNOWLEDGE, YOUNG WINCHESTER.  BUT _LIFE_ ISN’T FAIR AND I BELIEVE YOU’VE HEARD THAT SENTIMENT BEFORE.  PATIENCE, MY BOY.  AREN’T YOU THE ONE WHO APPRECIATES THE VALUE OF THE LONG GAME?**

**_FUCK you!_ **

**NOW WE’RE GETTING RUDE.  TIME TO END THIS SAMMY, BEFORE I BECOME INCLINED TO PUNISH YOU.  NOT THAT YOU DON’T DESERVE IT, AND EXQUISITELY.  BUT THAT TOO, CAN WAIT.  AND YOU HAVE A HUNT TO GET BACK TO.**

**_A hunt?_ **

**FOR THAT GOLDEN HAIRED, GREEN EYED _PREY_ OF YOURS, YOU CAN’T HAVE FORGOTTEN.  GOODBYE SAMMY.  FOR NOW.**

**_But just wait a minute!  I want-_ **

*******

Sam opened his eyes.

He was staring at a familiar ceiling, the dim, water-stained ceiling of one of the bedrooms in Bobby’s house.   A neat, nicely furnished room with framed needlepoint pictures on the walls, pictures embroidered by Bobby’s dead wife.  Twin beds side by side with blue and white checkered quilts and matching curtains on the window. 

A well known room, one that he and Dean had spent many hours in, the room a relic from the years of Bobby’s marriage, an oasis of relative order and cleanliness untouched by the alcoholic squalor that had taken over the rest of Bobby’s house.

Sam lay there quietly.  Trying to figure out how he’d got here.

Dean.  Dean’s eyes on him, full of agony.  Sam remembered that.  Dean and him, they’d had a terrible fight and then something had happened.  Sam had done something stupid because he’d been mad at Dean.  Killing mad.  Mad about-

A complicated feeling flooded through Sam suddenly.  Anger.  Desire, followed by a terrible sense of shame and regret.  And then…triumph?  A sense of victory, almost too sweet to bear. 

Victory.  Because he was back.  He’d come back from…something.  And Dean was waiting for him.  As promised.

Wasn’t he?

Sam was hungry to see Dean suddenly.  His eyes on Dean, that would bring some clarity to this cocktail of emotions frothing through him right now.   

And Dean would have an explanation for Sam’s presence in Bobby’s house.  He’d give Sam the logical chain of events.  But in the meantime, what did Sam remember?   Sam was thinking, hard.

Rhonda.  There had been something about Rhonda.  Something… _terrible,_ something connected with Sam, all Sam’s fault.  Sam felt the shame again, flooding through him in a toxic wave.  He remembered now.  Rhonda had been hurt because of _Sam,_ inexcusably losing his shit and exposing his real relationship with Dean, their secret for all these years.   Exposing it not just to Rhonda, but to the supernatural, too.  And then the consequences, that Dean had warned him about.  Rhonda had been possessed. 

And then Sam had…done something.  What?  All he could remember was that he’d known he’d had to step in, before Dean could do something that would destroy Sam utterly, that would make his shame so great, so impossible to overcome, that it would be better if he ended himself right now rather than live on, with that shame eating into his guts like a tapeworm. 

Before Dean could trade himself in to that spirit, to get Rhonda back. 

Sam had stepped in before Dean had committed himself to that.  He’d taken the situation out of Dean’s hands.  By doing…what? 

Sam was concentrating hard.  Trying to remember.   What had he _done,_ exactly?  He’d negotiated with the spirit, he remembered standing there…doing that…but he didn’t remember what he’d said.  All he remembered was the expression on Dean’s face, Dean staring at him tearfully.

And then Sam remembered…smiling.   He’d been feeling good, at the end.  He’d felt…great, actually.  Dean in tears, but Sam smiling.

Dean in tears.  Sam felt uncomfortable, remembering that.  He didn’t want that.  He wanted to remember Dean _smiling,_ Dean’s glad green gaze on him, like light shining through leaves.   

Sam felt impatient suddenly.  Dean.  Where was he?  Sam needed to see him _NOW._ He took a breath.

Okay. 

Okay but.

He’d find Dean in a moment, but first, what else did he remember? 

Dean, he’d been ready to sacrifice himself to get Rhonda back.  Paying the price for Sam’s mistake.  And Sam had stepped in, in the nick of time.  But what had Sam said, to make that happen?  And what had the spirit said?   And how had they gotten from there to here?

Sam was trying hard to remember.  But he couldn’t remember.  Why not?

He remembered holding _(the spirit’s)_ Rhonda’s hand and saying some words.   But then-

-what?

Was Rhonda okay?

Sam felt panic rising.  He contained it. 

Okay.  So _something_ had happened.   Something big, obviously, something too large for Dean to handle by himself because otherwise, why would Sam be _here?_   Dean wouldn’t have pulled up stakes and hightailed it to Bobby’s unless he’d had no choice. 

Sam stared thoughtfully at the window above his bed.  It was open to a blue summer sky, a warm breeze blowing in. 

The angle of the light.  It was mid day, or just after.  But wait a moment, hadn’t it been that time of day… _already?_    Back in Wisconsin?  

What day _was_ this?

And seriously…had Dean driven all the way to South Dakota without Sam waking up _once?_

Sam ran his hands experimentally down his body.  He seemed okay…except…wait a moment, was that a bruise he felt?  Sam pressed his fingers against his ribs.  Yep, that was a pretty fine bruise, alright.  He started pressing and prodding at himself more carefully.  Hmm.  More bruises.  On his arms.  His chest and stomach.  His throat was sore.  And his face, his jaw.  His shoulder.  And his hands…actually they felt pretty sore too, the knuckles raw, like he’d just finished several serious rounds of sparring with Dean. 

What had happened to him?

Sam noticed he was wearing the flannel pajamas he’d been keeping at Rhonda’s house.   Why was that?  Had Dean not gone back to their shack before coming here? 

And where _was_ Dean, anyway?  Sam felt indignant now.  If he’d really been unconscious all this time, he’d kind of have expected to wake up to the sight of Dean sitting tensely beside his bed…in tears possibly, or at least holding Sam’s hand.  He didn’t think he’d have woken up _alone._

Where the fuck was his brother?

Sam abruptly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  Fuck this.  He was locating Dean _NOW._

But before he could stand up a wave of dizziness overtook him, so strong that he couldn’t see for a moment.  He fell back on the bed, groaning.  “Shit,” he whispered.  He felt perilously close to throwing up. 

Okay.  So he’d get up in a minute.  But meanwhile…maybe if he just lay here quietly, more things would come back to him.   Sam closed his eyes.

So.  Holding Rhonda’s hand and feeling scared.  Scared.  The last thing he remembered was feeling _scared_.  But not just scared.  Scared and…excited?

He’d been looking forward to something.  Anticipating it.  What?  What had been about to happen? 

Suddenly an image of Aaron rose up against the darkness of Sam’s eyelids.  Aaron just standing there,  gazing at Sam with level blue eyes.

Aaron.  Why the fuck was Sam thinking about _Aaron,_ right now?

Sam opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling.  Aaron, Aaron…but that wasn’t quite it.  There was something else, something _other,_ tickling at his mind.  Some other name, starting with an A. 

_(Azazel)_

Sam was on his feet.  He was standing frozen beside the bed, balanced on the balls of his feet, every muscle in his body tensed and coiled to spring.   His heart was racing and he’d broken out in a cold sweat.

What the fuck?  What had just _happened?_

Sam stood there silently.  He started deliberately breathing low and deep.  Nausea was rising again, but he clamped down on it ruthlessly, putting the sensation away from him, only his mind present now, the complaints of his body banished to a distant roar, waves crashing in the distance.  He felt his heartbeat settle down. 

Okay.  So.  A name.  Which was-

_(Azaz-)_

Sam clenched his teeth.  Nausea again.  _What_?  _What_ was it?  He couldn’t grasp it somehow. 

He took another breath.  Tried again.  Maybe if he approached this from another direction.  So. 

That name…it had sounded old, archaic, a name from a dead language.  And _bad,_ with an energy charge on it like a bad spell.  A name no longer spoken in the world.  Forgotten.  No.  More than that.  _Forbidden._

The name forbidden.  To thought.  To _memory._   Because-

Sam could feel the name pushing against his mind with lethal potentiality, to expand there like a mushroom cloud.   To poison, to destroy everything else.  

Panic, rising.  Sam pushed it away.  No.  That name would not get the better of him.  He would contain it in his mind, dissassemble it, break it down into separate pieces.  Into separate _syllables,_ discrete, singular sounds, meaningless, harmless on their own, to be reassembled and examined later under controlled circumstances, maybe with some of Bobby’s reference books handy. 

Okay.  Sam took a breath.  He could do this. 

So.  A name, starting with an A like Aaron, but not Aaron.  Containing three syllables, not two.  Syllables that he would remember separately, containing them safely in their own little mental jars.  For later. 

Sam took another breath.  He could do this.  Jar one.

_(A-)_

But that was it. 

The rest gone, from his mind.

The name, if that’s what it was, was gone.  

Sam stood there, blinking.   He tried again.

_(A-)_

But…nothing.

Sam stood there.  _What_ had he been trying to remember again?   Some kind of word.  Had it been a name?

Nausea, rising.  Sam swallowed, frustrated.   What was he _doing_ right now, anyway?  It seemed pointless. 

Aaron in his mind again.

What the fuck?

Sam took another breath.   Okay.  Fine.  Thinking about Aaron right now didn’t make any sense, but Sam couldn’t spend more time on this.   He’d figure it out later, maybe ask Bobby since they were so conveniently here.  Question was… _why_ were they here?  If Bobby was in the picture that meant their _dad_ was in the picture too, or would be, shortly…and the deal had been that Dean was going to hold off on that for as long as possible.  Dean wouldn’t break his promise to Sam about that unless he’d had absolutely no choice, right?  Unless-

A thump of panic in Sam’s throat.  I mean…it _was_ Dean who had brought him here, right?

Where the fuck was _DEAN?_   Sam needed to see him already.

He was at the bedroom door.  Opened it, peering down the stairs.  Heard a murmur of voices from the kitchen.  Dean’s voice.

Sam leaned against the door, relief flooding through him.  Dean was here.  Whatever the situation was, however fucked up…it was still okay because Dean was here.  Dean was just a few steps away.  Sam started down the stairs.

And stopped, halting as he heard Dean’s voice rise.

“Bobby, we can’t wait any longer!  If we can’t force Sam to wake up we gotta try somethin else.  This has gone on too long already.  We gotta take the next step.  You gotta trance me in.”

Bobby’s voice.  “No, Dean, I’m not takin any step like that until your dad gets here.”

Dean.  “If we wait for Dad to get here, it’ll be too late!  You got to get me in there _NOW!”_

 _“No_ Dean, I told you, I can’t make that call.  You do that, it’s gotta be up to John.”

“Bobby, fuck.  I’m an adult, okay?  I’m nineteen years old for fuck sakes and I’ve been a full fledged hunter since I was sixteen.  It’s _not_ up to Dad anymore and he’ll understand anyway.  He’ll understand it’s Sam’s life on the line.”

Sam was frozen, listening.  His _life?_   What had happened?

Bobby’s voice.  “Dean…son…John’s gonna understand the same thing as me.  He’s gonna understand that it’s probably too late for Sam already if things went down the way you say.   The chance of Sam comin back from somethin like that… _as_ Sam…the Sam you know…that’s practically nil.”

Dean.  “How’s _that?”_

Bobby.  “John didn’t ward you ‘n’ Sam the way he did all those years ago for nothin, you know.  You boys’ve been under the protection of the strongest spell out there and I know that for a fact because _I’m_ the one who gave it to your dad in the first place.  You peel off a warding spell like that, it’s like openin a wound – a _deep_ wound, it’s like _scalpin_ someone practically – psychically, I mean.  You gotta be a psychic _surgeon_ to take off a spell like that without doin major damage…and somehow I don’t think Sam put himself in the hands of a surgeon.  And then he lets that thing take him off into the supernatural plane unwarded… _John Winchester’s kid,_ son of the most famous hunter out there…this wet-behind-the-ears kid just _askin_ for redress…son…” and Bobby’s voice was gentle now.  “Sam’s not comin back.  Not the way he went in.”

Dean’s voice, rising.  “But Bobby…I mean, _I_ did it – I fought that werecat spirit unwarded…remember?  And I came back just fine!”

A pause.  Then Bobby’s voice.  “Dean, you didn’t…you didn’t…I mean, you didn’t _go_ anywhere.  You were _conscious,_ right?  That spirit came to _you,_ as I recollect the story, you fought it on _our_ plane, not theirs.  You weren’t tranced in to the same degree that Sam is and Manon, much as I have nothin good to say about what she did to you, she _does_ know what she’s doin when it comes to wardin spells.  She _is_ a psychic surgeon, the arrogant bitch.”

Dean.  “…We’re gettin off topic and you’re missin the point.  Point is, Sam’s comin back to me,  okay?   _Any_ which way, he’s comin back.  There’s no choice here.  So if he’s not comin out on his own, I’m goin in to get him and you gotta help me!”

Bobby’s voice, hard now.  “Chances are, Sam’s comin back droolin.  Is _that_ what you want, Dean?”

Dean’s voice again, now thickened with tears.  “No.  No, Bobby, I don’t, how c’n you say that?  But we gotta try, Bobby, I’m not gonna have him dyin over there…I’m not gonna just give up on him!”

Bobby.  “But Dean…we peel the warding spell off you and trance you in…even if you _find_ Sam in there…even if you _recognize_ him at this point...you’re just gonna be in the same boat as him.  Soon as the spirits smell _you_ in there, John Winchester’s _other_ son…you’re gonna get jumped.   And then you’re gonna be _trapped_ in there, Dean, same as Sam.  And _also_ subject to redress.  And how am I supposed to explain that to _John_ once he shows up, that now he’s out _both_ sons?”

“Dad would understand,” Dean said.

Sam snorted.  Dean thinking that, even now.

“No,” Bobby said.  “Somehow I don’t think he would.”

“Bobby-“ and Dean’s voice was tight, thin with desperation.  “This whole thing was my fault, okay?  Sam’s in there because of _me._   I can’t _live_ with that, Bobby.  I gotta make things right.”

Sam was listening intently, not even breathing now.   Dean’s words.

_(I gotta make things right)_

But _Sam_ had been the one who’d said that.  Hadn’t he?  Right before – right before whatever had happened.  Sam closed his eyes, trying hard to remember.

Bobby’s voice.  “Throwin yourself away after your brother doesn’t make things right.”

“Bobby…c’mon…”

“And how’s this whole mess _your_ fault, anyway?”  Bobby asked.  “You haven’t been exactly clear with me on what happened, Dean.”

Sam opened his eyes.  And listened.  Dean.  Dean would explain.  Dean would fill in the gaps, here.

“…It’s a long story ‘n’ we don’t have time for it right now,” Dean said. 

Sam sighed.

Bobby’s voice, hard again.  “You gotta give me more than that.  Don’t bullshit me, Dean.”

And then Dean’s voice.  “Look.  Sam ‘n’ me…we had a fight, okay?  Over this…girl, okay?  A civilian girl, not warded.  And then somethin we…said…while we were fightin…attracted the attention of this random spirit and it jumped into her.  And then Sam struck a deal with it…that he’d go in ‘n’ fight it, on spirit ground, if the spirit promised to release her.”

“Why would the spirit promise _that?”_   Bobby asked.

“Because Sam said…” and Dean’s voice was raw.  “Because Sam promised…that if the _spirit_ won, he’d surrender to it.  And let it possess him totally, no hold backs.”

Sam clutched the bannister.  

The deal.  He remembered now.  He’d challenged the spirit to fight.  After that fight he’d had with _Dean,_ and what had happened, because of that.  But it hadn’t exactly happened the way Dean was describing.

Bobby.  “…So’s the girl okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “She’s fine.  The spirit freed her, as soon as Sam went in.”

“So Sam traded himself for her,” Bobby said.  And his voice was heavy now, laden with grief.

“No!” Dean said.  “He went in to _fight_ that spirit _,_ Bobby!  Not to trade…he got the spirit to agree to fight him-”

“I don’t understand that,”  Bobby said.  “Why would the spirit bother?  That’s just puttin itself on the line for no good reason.  Straight trade makes more sense.  That’s what’s _usually_ done.”

“Sam convinced it somehow,” Dean replied.  “He had…somethin the spirit wanted…”

“What?”  Bobby asked.

And suddenly Sam felt that terrible nausea again.  He reeled, strength leaving his legs.  Clutched at the bannister, willing himself not to fall.  And alert Bobby and Dean that he was awake.  And listening.

“…I don’t know,” Dean said.  And Sam heard the same choked, sick feeling in Dean’s voice that was taking Sam over.  “I don’t _know,_ Bobby!  I can’t remember, somehow.  And I’ve been tryin, trust me.  But Sam had something special…somethin the spirit wanted…that it was willin to risk a fight for –“

“ _Just_ Sam?”  Bobby’s voice was thoughtful now.  “The spirit wasn’t interested in you at all?”

“No.”  And Dean’s voice was tearful again.  “And I tried, Bobby, believe me.  The spirit didn’t care about me,  not after Sam spoke up.  ‘N’ I tried to stop him.  I did.    _I_ was prepared to do the trade, Bobby, ‘n’ the spirit knew it, too.   The _last_ thing I wanted was for Sam to step in.   I _told_ him to keep his mouth shut, but he wouldn’t.  And then it was too late.  I fucked up, Bobby.  I fucked the whole thing up.”

‘I’m sorry, son,” Bobby said, quietly. 

“-But we c’n still do somethin Bobby, don’t you see?” Dean said.   “Sam’s in there fightin that thing right now!  ‘N’ if there’s a chance he c’n win…’n’ come back…I gotta go _in_ there, Bobby!  ‘N’ help him.” 

“It’s too late, son,” Bobby said.  “That spirit sold you ‘n’ Sam a crock of shit if it led you to think Sam could come back from this.  Even if Sam beats it in there…in a fair fight…he’s gone in unwarded.  And the supernatural doesn’t take kindly to trespassers in its territory, especially hunters who should know better.   And to have _Sam_ in there…John’s kid…even if Sam beats that spirit, he’s put himself behind enemy lines.  He’s trapped on the other side and he’s not gonna be able to get out.  And the spirit would’ve known that.  It just didn’t tell you.”

“…No,” Dean said.  “I wouldn’t’ve let Sam go in, if I hadn’t been convinced he could come back.  I would’ve…I would’ve done somethin…”

“Like what?” Bobby asked.  “And why were you so convinced Sam could come back, anyways?  I _know_ you know about redress.  We’ve talked about it.”

“I don’t _know!”_   And Dean sounded like he was crying.  “There was somethin…about what Sam said…it was about that thing he had that the spirit wanted…but I can’t _remember,_ Bobby!  I can’t fuckin _remember!_   But I remember I just _knew_ he had a chance!”

“I dunno,” Bobby said.  “I’m afraid your story doesn’t make any sense to me, Dean.  Other than you’re right, you _did_ fuck up.   Both of you.   Whatever you ‘n’ Sam said, while you were fightin…it must’ve been somethin major to grab the attention of that spirit to the point it became a jumper, especially with the two of you bein warded so deep, like you were.   You boys know better, your dad ‘n’ me _and_ Pastor Jim saw to that.  What in Jesus’ name were you ‘n’ Sam _sayin_ to each other?”

“...I can’t remember that either,” Dean said.  And his voice was quiet now.  Controlled.  “I’ve been _tryin_ to remember, Bobby, believe me.  It’s like…I’ve had this memory wipe, or somethin.”

Sam bit his lip.  _He_ remembered why Dean and he had been fighting.    _And_ he remembered what had gone down, after.

_(Kissing, him and Dean kissing, under Rhonda’s horrified eyes)_

And he bet that Dean remembered that too.  But Dean wasn’t saying.

“…Uh huh,” Bobby said.  Sam heard him sigh.  “Well…whatever.  It’s too bad, Dean, that you ‘n’ Sam had to get jealous with each other over some girl.  Goes to show what c’n happen, when you start thinkin with your dick instead of your head.”

Sam bit his lip again.  He was trying not to laugh this time.   Oh, he’d been jealous, alright, Bobby had nailed that one.  Dick thinking, for sure.  But not the way Bobby assumed.   Not at all.

“Bobby…that doesn’t matter anymore,” Dean said.  “It sucked that it happened…but the girl’s okay, Sam saw to that.  Now we just have to get him _back,_ Bobby.   You gotta trance me in.  We have to do that, now.  Okay?”

“You’re not hearin me, son,” Bobby replied.  “The only thing we do now is wait for your dad to get here, so he c’n have a look at Sam for himself.   And then make the hard call.  The only one that makes any sense, in this situation.”

“…And what hard call is _that?”_   And Dean’s voice was cold now.  Dangerous.

“What to do with Sam’s body,” Bobby replied, after a pause.  “Whether or not we…wait, to see how bad the damage is.  But John may decide against that.  Cause if we wait, we’re _also_ takin the chance that Sam comes back possessed or as a revenant, which I gotta say, Dean, is the more likely situation, here.  And as hunters we have a responsibility against that, you _know_ that.  Lettin somethin supernatural through…not knowin _what’s_ gonna show up…how powerful it may or may not be…what kinda tricks it has up its sleeve…your dad may not want to take that chance, son.  In fact, now that I’m sayin this…I don’t know what I was thinkin, leavin Sam upstairs by himself, not locked down even.  We should move him, Dean.  Into the basement.”

The sound of a chair, scraping backwards.

 _“Fuck_ that!”  Dean was shouting.  “I’m not listenin to this shit any longer!  You’re trancin me in NOW, Bobby!  I’m goin in and gettin Sam _NOW!”_

“Put that away.”  Bobby’s voice, cold as ice.  “If you weren’t John’s son you’d be dead right now, Dean, pullin a gun on me in my own house.”

“You’re trancin me in,” Dean said, “Or I’m shootin you.”

“Go ahead,” Bobby said.  “You shoot me, son.  See where that leaves you.”

A silence.  Sam listened, not breathing.  Dean seriously wouldn’t do that, would he?  But then suddenly the sound of another chair, scraping backwards.

Bobby’s voice.  _“Dean!”_

“Fine,” Dean said.  “Then I’m shootin _me._   See this, Bobby?  Right in the liver.  My gun’s pointed right here, until you trance me in.  You make me shoot…’n’ then you see where that leaves _you,_ once Dad shows up.”

“Dean…son…”

“Do it, Bobby.”  Dean’s voice was hard.   “Give me the words.  NOW!”

Enough of this.  Sam ran down the stairs.  Paused at the entrance to the kitchen.  Saw Dean and Bobby, both on their feet, facing each other.  Dean had his gun jammed against his own side.  Bobby was crouched over, looking like he was ready to spring in Dean’s direction.  But he was holding his hands up pleadingly, his face agonized.

Sam walked in.  “Hi,” he said.

Two faces turning towards him.  Two voices.  _“Sam!”_

“It’s okay Dean,” Sam said.  “You c’n put the gun down.  I’m fine.”

Dean’s shining face.  “Sam!”  He put his gun down on the kitchen table and turned towards Sam, arms opening wide.

Bobby.  “Dean!  Not so fast!  You don’t know that’s Sam for sure!”

Dean, ignoring this.  _“Sammy!”_   His voice, shaking.

Sam walked into Dean’s arms.  “Dean!”  He felt those hard arms come around him.  Sam was crying.  “You weren’t gonna really _shoot_ yourself Dean, were you?”  And his own arms, holding Dean tightly.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  He’d buried his face in Sam’s hair.  Sam could feel his chest heaving.  “Sam…you really all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam started, “I’m really-“  But then the cold mouth of another gun, pressed against his temple.

Bobby’s voice.  “You step away from him, NOW!”

Dean.  “Bobby!  What’re you _DOIN!”_

“You don’t _know_ that’s Sam, you fuckin idiot, not yet,” Bobby said coldly.  Then speaking to Sam.  “This gun’s loaded with silver ‘n’ this house is booby trapped for spirits out the wazoo.  So don’t go tryin  anythin fancy.  You step away from him now…’n’ keep your mouth _shut_ ‘n’ your hands where I c’n see ‘em.  No fast movements.”

Sam raised his hands and stepped slowly backwards.  Bobby’s gun stayed pressed to his temple.  He saw Dean glaring at Bobby.

“Bobby…for fuck’s sake…that’s Sam!”

“If that’s Sam, he’s gotta prove himself,” Bobby said.  “Get the flask of holy water, it’s on the kitchen counter.”

Without taking his eyes off Bobby and Sam, Dean backed over to the kitchen counter.  Reached behind himself, picking up the silver whiskey flask of holy water that Bobby always kept handy and came back towards them.  He uncorked the flask.

“Splash that on miracle boy here, ‘n’ say the words,” Bobby said.  “The Latin ones, _both_ you ‘n’ him should know ‘em.”

Dean looked unsure for a moment.  Sam saw this, started to speak, to help Dean out.  But then the gun, cocking against his temple.  Dean’s face, suddenly white.  _“Bobby!  Stop!”_

And Bobby’s voice.  “Being, I _told_ you, _not_ to open your mouth-“

But then Dean’s arm moving quicker than thought, cool water suddenly splashing over Sam’s face.  And Dean’s voice, speaking the ancient challenge to strangers, the Latin words ringing in the room.

Sam listened to this and then replied in the same language, secret hunter’s words, spell words of provenance, unsayable by anything other than human, words that had been drilled into Sam since he’d _had_ words, practically.

A brief silence.  And then Dean, speaking again, the Latin words of welcome and benediction.  And Sam feeling a sudden peace settling around him, the air in the room suddenly lighter, somehow. 

Another silence.  The three of them, Sam, Bobby and Dean, slowly starting to breath again. 

Bobby stepped back, his gun lowered.

“Well,” Bobby said gruffly.  “Welcome back, Sam.”

Sam glanced at him briefly.  Then his eyes were back on Dean.  “Thanks Bobby.”

Dean staring at him, tears in his eyes, on his cheeks.  Sam felt tears rise in his own eyes, seeing this.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  “You really okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispered back.  “I really am.”

“What happened?” Dean asked.  “What happened in there?”

“I don’t remember,” Sam replied.  “I don’t remember anythin past speakin the words to go in.  ‘N’ then…nothin.  Not until I woke up upstairs, just now.  How long was I out?”

“Over twenty four hours,” Dean said.  “We got to Bobby’s in the middle of the night.  ‘N’ Dad’s on his way, we were expectin him sometime this evening.   But since you’re up, I’ll call ‘im, let him know he might not need to come any longer.  It was kind of a bitch gettin ahold of him, not a great time for him to leave the hunt right now.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Bobby said.  “Somehow I think John’s gonna want to see Sam for himself.”  And his eyes on Sam, thoughtful.

Sam felt a sudden chill.  He didn’t show it though, met Bobby’s gaze steadily.

“Well, I’m callin him anyway,” Dean said.  And his cell phone was out.  “Dad – yeah hi.  Guess what – Sam’s awake!   A pause.   “Yeah!  No, he’s fine, nothin wrong with him!”

A short pause.  Sam watched Dean’s expression change.

“No – Dad – no!  Seriously, Sam’s fine!  We did the holy water ‘n’ the challenge – ask Bobby, he saw it all.”

Another short pause.  Then Dean handed his phone to Bobby.  “Here,” he said shortly.  He looked pissed off now.

Bobby took the phone.  “John.”  And listening, holding the phone close to his ear.   “Yeah,” he said. Then, “No, he doesn't remember.”   More listening.  Then, “Apparently the spirit agreed to fight him.”  More listening.  Then, “Well that’s what Dean said, I haven’t had a chance to talk to Sam yet.”  A pause.  “No, I don’t know why.”  Another pause.  “No, Dean couldn’t tell me that.”  Listening.  Then, “Cause he doesn’t remember _either,_ says he’s been tryin.”  And Bobby’s eyes on Dean while he said this.  Sam was watching Bobby carefully.  He saw Dean watching Bobby too.  Sam met his brother’s eyes, then looked away.

Bobby holding Dean’s phone to his ear, his expression grave.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Arright.”  He closed Dean’s phone, then turned towards the brothers.  “Your dad’s comin,” he said.  “He wants to have a look at Sam.”

Dean didn’t look happy about this.  “Dad might lose his hunt, Bobby.  Why’s it so necessary for him to rush over here now?  Sam ‘n’ I were plannin on meeting up with him later, anyways.”

Bobby looked at him.  Then said, coldly.  _“John_ thought it was necessary.  Dean…there’s somethin about this whole situation that doesn’t add up and I _know_ I’m not tellin you anythin that you don’t know.  And I’ll _also_ have you know I’m not in any way pleased about that shit you pulled earlier although I understand you were upset.  What’s happened with Sam is a serious thing  and I know you know this, otherwise you wouldn’t’ve come knockin at my door.  ‘N’ we don’t necessarily know that Sam’s out of the woods.  Sure he _seems_ fine, but that’s worth a second look.  ‘N’ your dad’s the best one to do it.”

Dean was quiet.  Then asked, “What’s Dad plannin to do?”

“John’s gonna trance Sam again,” Bobby said.  “See if we c’n dig up his memories from his time on the other side.  ‘N’ _also_ see if we c’n figure out what’s so all fired attractive about him that caused that spirit to agree to _fight_ him…if that’s actually what happened.”

“You doubtin my word?” Dean asked sharply.  “Or _Sam’s?”_

“…No,” Bobby said.  “But you boys don’t remember everythin, you said so yourself.  And if you _don’t_ remember…there must be a reason.  So we’re gonna go in there ‘n’ find out what it is.”

“Go into my head, you mean,” Sam said.  He felt a cold anger, rising. 

“Yeah,” Bobby said.  “Now if you don’t mind, boys, I’m gonna hit the mattress for a few hours.  Haven’t slept since Dean banged down my door last night and I want to be fresh when John gets here.  Trancin you again, Sam…that’s gonna be a job.”

“A _dangerous_ job,” Sam said.  He glanced at Dean.  Dean looked really upset, he noticed.  And not just upset.  Miserable.

Sam considered this.  If their dad tranced him…and found out the _real_ reason that the spirit had possessed Rhonda…

Dean’s life as a hunter…as John’s _son_ …that would be over.   It would be over for Sam too of course, but Sam wouldn’t exactly be devastated about that.  Dean would be, though.

“Well…yeah, it has its risks,” Bobby said.  “But it’s _also_ dangerous, son, just lettin things be.  It’s always better to have the full information.  You want that, don’t you?  Don’t worry, your dad and I know what we’re doin.”

Sam looked at Dean again.  Dean met his eyes.  He stared at Sam steadily.  But didn’t say anything.

And Dean wasn’t going to, Sam realized.  It was almost certain their dad would find out about him and Dean if he put Sam under a trance, but Dean wasn’t going to say a word.  He was leaving that decision up to Sam.

Sam felt a great love for his brother suddenly.  He turned to Bobby.  “Forget it.”

Bobby.  “What?”

“I’m not lettin Dad mess around with my head,” Sam said. 

Bobby.  “Sam, John knows what he’s doin.  He’ll be careful with you.  He’s your _dad,_ c’mon.  ‘N’ I’ll be there too.”

“I don’t want you in there either, Bobby, no offence,” Sam said. 

“…I don’t understand,” Bobby said.  “Why _not?”_

Sam looked at him.  “Um…because whatever’s in my head…is none of your business?”

Bobby.  _“What?”_

Sam gazed at him steadily.  “I’ve proved myself, Bobby.  I passed the challenge, you saw that.  I’m me, I’m not possessed.  So I don’t need any more messin around with, thank you very much.”

“Sam…son…you didn’t come back from a picnic.  I’ve _seen_ those marks on you…don’t you want to know what _happened_ to you over there?”

Aaron, suddenly in Sam’s mind again.  Aaron standing against the empty horizon of a desert, lifeless yellow sand dunes stretching away into the distance.  Sam blinked.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I do.  But I’m gonna figure it out without goin under a trance.”

Bobby shook his head.  “How?  A trance is the best way, Sam.  We’ll follow your memory back, see if you c’n tell us exactly who you met in there. _”_

Sam didn’t reply.  He heard a voice suddenly, rising in his mind.

_(Child, I pity you)_

Sam was frozen.  What-

But then a dog’s howl, baying out with an ancient, terrible grief.  One last message, a final goodbye to a loved world, never again to be home. 

Sam was shaking.   Dean’s eyes on this.  “Sam!”

“I’m fine,” Sam said.  He controlled himself with an effort.  Smiled at Dean reassuringly.  Then turned to Bobby.

“I think I met a god,” he said.  Tears were in his eyes, suddenly.  “It’s dead now.”

Bobby looked stunned.  “Did you kill it?” he said.

“I – I”  Sam was shaking again.  Nausea, rising.  “I…fought it,” he said, with difficulty.  “I caused it…to be… dead.”

Bobby frowned.  _“What?”_

“I-“  And suddenly the nausea, uncontrollable.  Sam choked, then stumbled over to the kitchen sink.  Threw up in it, violently. 

 _“Sam!”_   Dean’s hand on his back.

Sam was retching.  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“Don’t be,” Dean said.  His hand on Sam’s back, guiding him over to a chair.  “Here, sit down.”

Sam collapsed into the chair.  Looked at Bobby again.  “You can’t trance me,” he said.  “It’s gonna kill me.”

Bobby, staring at Sam hard.  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because I’m not supposed to go back there,” Sam said.  “Not right now.”

“How do you know?” Bobby asked.

“I just do,” Sam said.  “It’s-“

_(Forbidden)_

Sam was retching again, his head bent down over the kitchen table.

“That’s enough, Bobby,” Dean said.  “We’re droppin it.”

Bobby was quiet.  Then asked.  “Do you know who the god was?”

“I did,” Sam whispered.  He was leaning weakly back in his chair.  Dean came to stand behind him, his hands on Sam’s shoulders.  Sam let his head drop back against Dean’s stomach, not caring right now, that Bobby saw this.  He closed his eyes. 

“The death of a god is a serious thing,” Bobby said after a moment.  “It has repercussions, on both sides of the divide.  We should know who it was, Sam.”

Sam opened his eyes.  Looked at Bobby.  “I can’t remember right now but I’ll figure it out,” he said. 

Bobby looked skeptical.  “How’re you gonna do _that?”_ he asked.

Sam shrugged.  “I just will, that’s all.”  He looked at Bobby.  “I’m smart.”

Bobby opened his mouth.  Then closed it.  He looked at Dean.  Sam turned his head and looked up at his brother too.  Dean staring down at him, concerned.  But then Dean looked back at Bobby.  And shrugged.

“He is,” Dean said.  And his hands tightened on Sam’s shoulders.

Sam gazed at him.  Dean was watching him again with tender, grave concern, a familiar look and one that Sam knew from all the years of his life, a look that would come over Dean’s face whenever Sam was sick, or maybe had a booboo that needed bandaging.  Dean’s big brother look.  But then Dean smiled at him, a rueful smile that Sam was familiar with too, one that often showed up on Dean’s face when Sam was being a smartass. 

Sam gazed up at his brother, his chest tight with that strong love again.

_Dean._

And suddenly that tight feeling was taking him over, a thrum of sensation prickling through his whole body.  Sam stared up at his brother, thoughtfully now.  Dean, with that fine, delicate face under a shock of gold hair, an exhausted, pale face right now, with a bruise on one cheek, but still beautiful.  The green eyes, that Sam would lose himself in.  That hard, perfect body.

Dean.  Sam wanted to be alone with him.  _Now._  

He stared up at Dean silently, saw the green eyes looking back, suddenly widening.   Sam smiled at Dean slightly.  And watched his brother react to this, those perfect lips parting.  Sam stopped smiling.

But then Bobby.  “Sam…I don’t think you’re fine,” he said, slowly.  “I understand your point, but I still think a trance is the way to go.  Your dad ‘n’ me…we have your best interests at heart, son, you know that.  ‘N’ we’ve both been in this game a lotta years.  We know what we’re doin.  If somethin starts to go wrong, we’ll pull out immediately.  But gettin into your head is the right move, right now.”

“No,” Sam said. 

“Son…” Bobby said.  “Why’re you bein so _stubborn?”_

“Apart from the fact that I said another trance might _kill_ me…” Sam answered, “it’s not called for right now.  This hunt is _over.”_

Bobby stared at him.

Sam met his gaze steadily.  “Hunt’s over,” he said again.  “I mean, Rhonda’s okay, right?”  He glanced at Dean briefly.  Dean nodded.  Sam turned back to Bobby.  “And I did that,” he said.  “I went in there and made that situation right.   And then I made it back, against the odds.”  He paused.  Then said, “So maybe I’m _not…_ fine.   But so _what,_ Bobby? You ever met a hunter who was completely ‘ _fine’?_ ”

Bobby’s expression changed.

Sam, watching him.  “I’m a hunter now, Bobby,” he said softly.  “Just like you ‘n’ Dad ‘n’ Dean.  I hunted a spirit.  Sure I might’ve paid a price for doin it.  But now I move on, as best I can.  Just like the rest of you.”

Bobby, staring.  “Son…I get your point, don’t think I don’t.  But I’m concerned, don’t you see?  We need a more complete picture than the one I’m gettin from you right now.  ‘N’ your dad would say the same thing.”

“That’s _my_ call,” Sam said.  “Not yours.  Or my dad’s.”

Bobby looked frustrated.  “Son…that’s not the attitude I would’ve expected from you.  You say you’re a hunter now…well I accept that.  But hunters have responsibilities too.  It’s not _all_ about you.  You owe me ‘n’ your dad more than that.”

Sam was quiet for a moment.  He glanced at Dean.  Then looked back at Bobby.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he said, “Other than my thanks for your hospitality to me ‘n’ my brother over the years.  And I don’t owe my dad _shit.”_

Bobby stared at him, eyes widening.

“I’m not my dad’s property,” Sam continued.  “Even if you ‘n’ he think that way, and I know for a fact that _he_ does.   But he’s wrong.”

Bobby opened his mouth.  Closed it.

“I belong to myself,” Sam said, “and I’m goin with my own judgement on this.”   His eyes turned towards Dean again. 

Dean was staring at him. 

“I belong to myself,” Sam repeated softly.  And saw Dean’s expression change.  Sam gazed at him.  Then reached up and put his hands on top of Dean’s hands where they still rested on his shoulders.  Sam rubbed his thumbs over Dean’s hands, felt their grip tighten.  He turned back to Bobby.   

“And that includes decidin what happens with my head,” he continued.  “And if I don’t want to trance in right now because I think it’s the wrong move…well that’s _my_ call.   Not yours.  Not Dad’s.”

Bobby looked at him.

Sam looked back.  “Don’t you get it?” he asked.  “I’ve just come back from a _hunt,_ Bobby.  My first hunt, and it had nothin to do with Dad.”

Bobby was quiet.

Sam looked at him.  “I’m a hunter,” he said.  “Just like you ‘n’ Dad raised me to be.  Respect that.”

Silence. 

“Either you trust me or you don’t,” Sam said.

Bobby didn’t reply.  But Sam saw his eyes turn to Dean.  Sam turned and looked up at Dean too. 

And saw those green eyes on him, filled with…what?  Not pain, but not joy, either.  An expression in Dean’s eyes that Sam couldn’t define, Dean’s _expression,_ broken right open.   Sam saw this.  But then he _received_ it, like something sweet.  Like a gift.  A prize.  The sweetness of that expression in his brother’s eyes, felt throughout Sam’s whole body.  Sam was silent, staring at Dean, unable to speak, overcome by that feeling.   But then he turned back to Bobby, with an effort.   And waited.

Bobby was watching him again, his face tired.  “I trust you, son.”  He sighed.  But then he smiled, the same rueful smile that Sam had seen on Dean’s face, earlier.  “Hunter, huh,” he said.  “Well Sam…welcome to the club.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

Bobby nodded.  Then said, “So what do I tell John?  He’s not gonna be happy you’re not playin ball.  He’s drivin over here all fired up to check you out.”

Sam shrugged.  “Tell him whatever you want,” he said.  “Just so long as he understands he’s not doin anythin but checkin me out as my _dad,_ givin me a hug maybe.   But _not_ bargin into my head like some wannabe shaman.”

Bobby smiled wryly at this.  He glanced at Dean.

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean said.  He picked up his phone, dialled out.  “Dad,” he said.  “No.  Yeah.  No, it’s about Sam.”  A pause.  “No, he’s fine, he just doesn’t want to be tranced right now.  He wanted you to know that before you drove the rest of the way over here.”  A pause.  “No,” Dean said, “he just doesn’t want to do that right now.  He thinks it’s the wrong move.”  A pause.  “No,” Dean said, his voice sharpening, “actually it _is_ his choice.”  A pause.  Then, _“No,”_ Dean said.  “Sam’s _fine,_ I _told_ you, he’s been proven.”  Another pause.  Bobby and Sam watched Dean silently.  Dean was frowning now.  “No,” Dean said.  “I won’t do that.”  Another pause.  “Dad,” Dean said.  _“No._   Forget it.”  Then, “No, you _don’t_ need to talk to Bobby.  Bobby’s on board with this.”  Dean looked at Bobby.

Bobby sighed.  Rolled his eyes.  But then he nodded.  Dean turned his attention back to the phone.  “Sure, I understand you’re still comin down,” Dean said.  He glanced at Sam now.  “Sam’ll be happy to see you.”

Sam sighed.  Rolled his eyes.  But then nodded.  Dean grinned at him briefly.  “But no trancin him right now,” he said.  “Just so we’re clear.”

A pause, a long one this time.  Dean listening, his expression grave.  “No,” he said after a moment.  “I don’t remember the exact conversation.  Just that the spirit agreed to fight him.”  A pause.  “No, I said I don’t remember why…I think the spirit shielded that information somehow, that’s why neither me ‘n’ Sam c’n remember.”  A pause.  Then, “No, you’re not trancin me either.”  Sam felt himself go pale at this.  Nausea, suddenly rising up.

A pause.   Dean’s eyes on him.  “Because any talk of trancin seems to have a bad effect on Sam,” Dean said.  “Makes him sick.   He doesn’t think forcin our way back in there is the right move right now, and neither do I.”  Another pause.  Then, “No Dad, forget it.  I’m sorry.”   Then, “You let _me_ be the judge of that.”  Another pause.  Sam watching, silently.

Dean frowning.  Then suddenly, “No.  No, Dad!  Forget it!”  Then, “Sam’s not your goddamn property ‘n’ neither am I!  NO!”  And then, finally, Dean snapping into the phone, his voice tight with anger.  “I’m not listenin to this.  You want me ‘n’ Sam to be here when you show up, I want your promise you’re gonna drop it.”  A pause.  Then, more calmly, “Dad –I’m not threatenin you, Jesus.  I’m just sayin I don’t want to fight with you about this.  Not over the phone and not in person.  Okay?”  A pause.   Then Dean’s voice, distressed now.  “Dad…Jesus…c’mon…” 

Sam had had enough.   He took the phone from Dean’s hand and closed it.

Dean turned on him.  “Hey!”

“Just let it be for a bit.  Let Dad cool off,” Sam said.  Dean’s phone was ringing again.  Sam held his brother’s gaze.  “Leave it,” he said.  Both he and Dean listened to Dean’s phone ring.  Eventually it stopped. 

Then rang again.  Sam rolled his eyes.  He turned Dean’s phone off. 

Sam and Dean looked at each other.  Sam took a breath.  “Well-“ he began.

Another phone ringing.  “That’s mine,” Bobby said.  He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, looked at the call display.  Sighed.  Answered it.  “John,” he said.  A pause.  Then Bobby laughed.  “John, you gotta be kiddin,” he said.  Another pause.  “No I won’t,” Bobby said.  A pause.  “Because this is America,” Bobby said, his voice cold now.  “Land of the free.  And that includes your sons.”  A pause.  Then, “No, John, I’m with Dean on that one.  We’re not doin that.  Forget it.”  Then, “No, that actually _is_ my call.”  Then, “John.  _Jesus.”_   And he snapped his phone closed.  It rang again.  Bobby turned it off. 

Sam and Dean were staring at him.  Bobby looked at them and shrugged.  Sighed.  “If you’re so set on not bein tranced,” he said, “it might be better if you boys were on your way.  Your dad’s gunnin for bear right now and I’m not too interested in hostin a showdown between the three of you.  I’m fond of my roof.  Want it standin, after this evening.”

“What about you?” Dean asked. 

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll square it with John once he shows up,” Bobby said. 

Dean looked sad.  “Dad’s mad at us,” he said.  He’d collapsed into another kitchen chair, like the strength had left his legs.

Bobby looked at him compassionately.  “He’ll calm down,” he said.  “He’ll be okay, eventually.  I’ve known John a lot of years, son.  He c’n be crazy but he’s not _crazy_ crazy.”

“I wanted him to be proud,” Dean said.  “Or at least, not so mad.  After all, it _was_ Sam’s first hunt.  And look, things turned out okay!  I mean, nobody died, right?  Except for the spirit.”

“He’ll be proud,” Bobby said.  “Eventually.   I’ll let him yell at me for awhile ‘n’ get it out of his system.  And then we’ll have a drink.  John’ll be okay once he’s taken in the fact that he’s raised _two_ blooded hunters.  Trust me, by the time you see him again, he’ll be burstin with plans for the three of you.”

Sam rolled his eyes again.  “Great,” he said.  But then he met Dean’s eyes.  And felt his chest start to ache at the expression there.  “It’s okay, Dean,” he said, gently.  “I _want_ to hunt with you ‘n’ Dad.  I get it, now.”

And he did, suddenly.   He got it.  Sam felt that cold resolution in his gut, in his mind.  His gaze, sharpening, seeing _through_ Bobby’s messy kitchen somehow.  Into darkness, beyond. 

And what resided there.  A voice in Sam’s mind, like a clanging bell.

**(MY BOY)**

Nausea again, but Sam ignored it.  “I understand forbidden,” he said quietly.  Speaking to the air in front of him.  “All it needs is a work-around.”

Silence.  But Sam could sense something, something beyond the edges of conscious thought.   An avid, eager intelligence, focused on him possessively.  Listening in.

“When I meet you again,” Sam said, staring outwards into nothing, “It’ll be on _my_ terms.”

Silence.

“I promise that,”  Sam said.  And the air around him heavier suddenly.  Weighted down by those words.

**(LAUGHTER)**

“Fuck you,” Sam said softly. 

Silence.  But then the presence, like a pressure on his mind.

It was gone.

Sam blinked.  Looked up.  Dean and Bobby were staring at him.

“I understand why we hunt,” Sam said to them.  

Both Bobby and Dean watching him, their eyes grave.

“This is _our_ world,” Sam said.  “Not theirs.  And we protect it.  Whatever the cost.”

Bobby’s eyes on him, the respect there.  Sam received this like something sweet.

“Yeah,” Bobby said roughly.  Then he got up.  Went over to his fridge, opened it, peering inside.  “It’ll be awhile before John gets here,” he said.  “Even if he’s doublin the speed limit.  I’ll get you boys some lunch, then you get goin.  You call me when you’re settled, let me know where you are.”

“Okay,” Dean said.  “Thanks Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said again.  He pulled a package of salami out of the fridge, held it to his nose.  “I _think_ this is okay,” he said doubtfully.

Sam felt a lump in his throat.  He loved Bobby.  “I’m sure it is,” he said, gently.

***

Sam and Dean driving.  Headed north.  Sam was slouched in the passenger seat, watching the flat landscape pass by.   He and Dean hadn’t said much to each other since they’d left Bobby’s and there’d been silence between them for an hour.

“How far you plannin on goin?” Sam asked idly.   His eyes on flat green fields.  No answer.  Sam glanced over at his brother.  “Dean?”  And then, “Dean!”

Dean’s head was nodding forward.  His eyes were closed.  Sam grabbed the steering wheel.  “Dean!”

Dean’s head jerked up.  “Oh shit,” he muttered.  

Sam looked at him.  Dean’s face was pale and drawn, dark circles under his eyes, the bruise that Sam had put on his cheek standing out starkly.   He looked past exhausted.

“Pull over,” Sam said.  “Pull over, Dean.”

Dean pulled over to the side of the road.  Sat silently, hands on the steering wheel.

“How long’s it been since you had any sleep?” Sam asked him.

Dean shook his head.  “Dunno,” he said.  “Not since you were out anyways.”

“Jesus,” Sam said.  “You shoulda said somethin.  _I_ should be drivin.”

Dean sighed.  “Yeah, guess so.  Didn’t even occur to me.”

“Here,” Sam said.  He was getting out of the car.  “Let’s switch.”

Dean, sitting there.  Sam paused.  “Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Dean undoing his seatbelt, getting out of the car.  They switched sides.  Sam sitting behind the wheel now, watching Dean settle himself into the passenger seat with a sigh.

“So where we goin?” Sam asked him.

Dean’s head was leaned back, his eyes closed.  “I dunno, pick a town,” he said absently.

“How far d’you want to get from Bobby’s before we stop?” Sam asked.

“Far enough,” Dean said.  He hadn’t opened his eyes.  “Wouldn’t put it past Dad to try ‘n’ track us down.”

Sam nodded.  “We should circle back maybe,” he said.  “Go back ‘n’ get our stuff.  Clear out the shack before Dad gets the same idea, races to meet us there.”

“Bobby’s takin care of our stuff,” Dean said.  “I talked to him before we left, when you were upstairs showerin.  He’s callin his contact, gettin them to deal with it.  Isn’t anythin important there anyway, just our clothes, they c’n be shipped to Bobby’s or tossed if that’s too much trouble.  Your knapsack’s in the trunk.  Your phone too.  And the weapons too, you know how I like to keep ‘em handy.  Good thing, huh.”

“There isn’t anythin there…um…” Sam began.

Dean opened one eye.  Looked at him.

“…that would make anyone figure out, about us?” Sam asked.

Dean closed his eyes again.  “Nah,” he said.  “Nothin that can’t be explained away.  Trust me, I gave that some thought.”

“I sorta want to go back, though,” Sam said.  He felt sad, thinking about their little shack, abandoned.  He’d been happy there.  “Pack up ourselves.”

“Bobby didn’t think it was a good idea,” Dean said.   “That part of the country’s…sensitive, remember?  It has a history.  And when what happened…happened, that spirit jumpin in to Rhonda like that…it stirred things up.  Bobby said it was better that we don’t go back – that _you_ don’t go back, I mean.”

“Me?” Sam asked.  “Why?”

Dean opened his eyes.  Glanced at Sam then looked away.  “Once portals between our plane ‘n’ the supernatural are created, they never really go away,” he said.  “They c’n be closed, but they don’t disappear.  And that part of the country had a major possession problem, back in the day.  There’s some big-ass portals there, but they’re closed now, of course.  Buried deep.  But that’s why hunters maintain a presence there, they keep an eye on things.  Make sure they stay quiet.  So when we…you know…messed up…and then Rhonda…and then you unwardin yourself like that, lettin that spirit take you through to the other side…that was like all the lights goin on in the neighbourhood.  And any trace supernatural elements around there…they’ll perk up around you now cause you were the flash point of this like, major supernatural event.  You go back there before things settle down…it could be a problem.  So Bobby said you stay away from there.  Until further notice.”

“What about you?” Sam asked.

“Me too,” Dean said shortly.  “But Bobby doesn’t know about me, of course.  He was just talkin about _you.”_

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam said quietly. 

“Forget about it,” Dean said.  “You’re back, that’s all that counts.”

“And I’m warded again, aren’t I?” Sam asked.  “Did you guys seal me back up while I was out?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Dean?”

“You’re warded,” Dean said.  “But not by us.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean sighed.  “Bobby had a real close look at you,” he said.  “Soon as we got there.  Checked you out, head to toe.”

Sam grimaced.  “Naked?”

Dean grinned briefly.  “Yeah.  Sorry.”

“Ick,” Sam said. 

“Couldn’t be helped,” Dean said.  “We needed to know what we were dealin with and those marks on you…they could’ve helped us figure that out.  Not that they did though, except for showin you were doin _somethin,_ over there.”

“They showed up while I was layin out, cold?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He paused.  “I was goin crazy,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said

Dean didn’t reply for a moment.   Then said, “Yeah.  But so anyway, Bobby checked out those ‘n’ then he did some other mumbo jumbo on you.  Incantations and such.  Seein if he could do somethin to get you outa there without takin the risk that he’d be trippin you up while you were fightin.  Creating an opportunity for that spirit to possess you.”

“So what did he find?” Sam said.

“That he couldn’t do jack shit,” Dean said.  “You were warded again, alright, but it wasn’t any spell that Bobby recognized.  It was like you were sealed off from the _other_ side.”

“Fuck,” Sam said.  “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “Bobby said…it’s like there’s this big ‘No Trespassin’ sign on you.  Stronger than anythin he’s ever seen.  He said it’d scare _anythin_ supernatural away from you, except maybe God.”

“Holy shit,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.   “That’s one of the reasons Dad was so eager to trance you.  Wanted to see what you’d have to say once you were in the trance state.  Get some insight on what was up with that.”

Sam snorted.  “Figures,” he said.

“I wanted to know too,” Dean said quietly.  “If you’d been willin, I’d’ve gone along with it, even if…you know...it was riskin Dad findin out about the other stuff.   I’m concerned, Sam.  Whatever locked you down…it meant business.”

“What kind of business?” Sam asked.

“Dunno,” Dean said.  “Could be it just didn’t want the fight interrupted.  Could be more than that.  We just don’t know.”

“The spirit I fought…it’s dead,” Sam said.  “That business is done.”

“You sure about that?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I’m sure.”

“Well maybe you’re stuck with that warding spell then,” Dean said.  “Cause whatever put it on you…it’s  the only one who c’n lift it.  No hunter’s gonna be able to take it off you.  Not even a hunter like Bobby.”

Sam considered this.  He felt sad, suddenly.   “Sealed off again,” he said.  “Dean, you know…I kinda think I saw what it was like, to see things unwarded.  I think that’s one of the things I saw, in there.  I think I saw real colours.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean said.  “What were they like?”

“I don’t remember,” Sam said, sadly.  “I just remember…seein somethin beautiful.”

“Huh,” Dean said.  “Well…one thing’s for certain, you’re seriously spell warded.  Untouchable, basically.  It’s actually kind of an asset.”

“Does that mean that… _we’re_ cool, then?” Sam asked.

Dean looked at him.

“You know…that we c’n…keep on like we’ve been doin,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said after a moment.  “In fact, we c’n probably be less paranoid about it, not that I’d recommend it.  With _that_ wardin…you c’n pretty much do what you want, as far as I understand, only thing the supernatural’s gonna see if _you_ pop up on their radar will be ‘STAY AWAY FROM HIM.’  Bobby said that spirits see _that,_ they’re just gonna run in the other direction.  Won’t stick around to look too closely at you or anyone you’re with.  Course that doesn’t go for _people,_ includin hunters.  We still have to be careful.”

“So c’n we look up Rhonda again?” Sam asked.  “Once she’s out of that place?  Once she’s at Columbia, maybe?”

 Dean looked at him.  “No,” he said.  “Rhonda was lucky to survive what happened to her.  She deserves to live her life, Sam, without us messin it up again.  Leave her be.”

“I’d like her to know we’re okay, though,” Sam said.  “Let’s call her.”

“Okay,” Dean said. 

Sam started to reach for Dean’s phone.  “No,” Dean said.  “Not right now.”  He’d leaned his head back again, closing his eyes.  “I’m about at the end of my rope, Sammy.  Not up to any more talkin, okay?   And we have to figure out some sort of cover story before we get her on the line, anyways.   Let’s find a place to crash.  Lemme sleep.  We’ll call Rhonda tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sam said.   He looked at Dean slumped back in his seat, the pale, beautiful face, the strong legs in faded jeans, sprawled carelessly.  The finely carved hands, resting quiet on his lap.

_Dean._

“Dean,” Sam whispered.

“…Yeah?”

“Do up your seatbelt.”

“You do it for me, Sammy,” Dean mumbled.  He didn’t stir.

Sam leaned forward, gently pulling the seatbelt over his motionless brother.  Snapped it closed.  Then leaned forward further and placed his lips carefully over Dean’s mouth.

“Mmmph,” Dean said.  He started to turn his head.

“Don’t move,” Sam whispered.  He was kissing Dean’s mouth, felt his brother’s lips part.  “Just lemme do this.”  He slipped his tongue gently into Dean’s mouth.  Stroked the roof of Dean’s mouth, touching it lightly with the tip of his tongue.  Dean made a soft sound.  Sam smiled at this then pulled back slightly.  Licked his brother’s lips, running his tongue over their perfect shape.

“Sammy-” Dean began.

“Shh,” Sam whispered.  He’d put his hands on either side of Dean’s face, being careful with Dean’s sore cheek.  And now kissing him, kissing his brother, kissing him carefully, tenderly.

Dean’s head leaning back, Dean’s mouth opening under Sam’s kisses.

Dean.  Dean leaning back so quiet under Sam’s mouth.

That sweet feeling, flooding through Sam again.

“Do you remember?” Sam whispered.  And kissing his brother.

“Remember what?” Dean whispered back. 

“Remember what you promised me,” Sam said.  “Before the spirit took me away.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, after a moment.  “I remember.”

“Tell me,” Sam murmured to him.  And kissing Dean again, kissing Dean’s throat now, the soft skin under Dean’s ear, Dean’s head falling further back, Sam opening his mouth on Dean’s throat, sucking back lightly, licking him, and Dean moaning at this, softly, deliciously, his hands reaching up to clasp Sam’s waist.   Sam smiled  “Tell me what you promised,” he whispered.  And kissing Dean, very lightly, soft kisses on his lips, on the tip of his nose, between his brows.  Kissing Dean’s lips, again.

Dean was quiet.

Sam kissing him.  He put one of his hands between Dean’s legs, cupping the bulge there.  His thumb finding the long length of Dean’s cock.  Stroking it.  Dean’s soft sigh of pleasure. 

“Tell me,” Sam whispered.  He was kissing Dean’s mouth again, whispering against it.  His thumb, stroking.  “Tell me what you promised me…if I came back to you.”

“Sammy…” Dean whispered.

 _“Tell_ me,” Sam said, more insistently.  And finding the tip of Dean’s cock with his thumb, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the blunt shape under soft denim.  He felt Dean shudder.

“I…promised…to be yours,” Dean replied after a moment.   His voice was strained.

Sam smiled.  “All mine,” he whispered, his voice soft again, his mouth against Dean’s mouth.  And running his fingers lightly back and forth between Dean’s legs, Dean shuddering again, Sam savouring this.

 _“Say it,”_ Sam whispered.  And his fingers, stroking back and forth.  His thumb, rubbing.

“All yours,” Dean whispered back.   He was shuddering.

But Sam rewarding this, now kissing Dean deeply, his tongue deep inside Dean’s mouth, claiming that sweet mouth that had opened to him.  His hand busy between Dean’s legs.  And now Dean arching up, his hands finding Sam’s hips to pull Sam forward onto his lap.

Sam broke away.  He sat back, staring at his brother. 

Dean opened his eyes.  He gazed at Sam, his eyes that dark green that Sam loved.  They watched each other silently.

“I’m holdin you to your promise,” Sam said. 

Dean staring at him, eyes wary now.

Sam smiled at him.  “Just as soon as you rest up.”  He turned away, did up his own seatbelt.  Pulled onto the road, the car’s tires screeching on gravel.  Sam brought them up to a decent speed then turned to Dean again.

Dean was still staring at him.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

Sam smiled at him then looked away, back to the road in front of him.

“You’ll see,” he said.

***

Now watching Dean sleep.

Dean had been sleeping for hours.  Sam glanced at his watch.  Three a.m.  He turned to look at Dean again, curled up on his side on the lumpy motel mattress.   Watched him, silently.

Dean had fallen asleep soon after Sam started driving.  Sam had roused him to check them into a run down motel on the outskirts of a small Nebraskan town, Dean asking for their usual, a twin bed room, cheapest available, paying the full amount for one night up front with cash.  Sam could’ve sworn Dean hadn’t been all the way away awake through that transaction, speaking to the motel clerk in a toneless, mechanical voice without looking at him once.

Sam had seen the clerk’s eyes on Dean, widening, taking in his memorable looks, his suspiciously young appearance even though he had ID, the even younger boy he was with, with the long brown hair, as long as a girl’s.   The noticeable bruises on both of them.   Sam had sighed, silently.  No way this guy wasn’t going to remember them.  He’d have a story for their dad, if John managed to track them this far.  But maybe that wouldn’t be an issue.  Maybe Bobby would calm their dad down, make him see reason.  And Dean and Sam could meet up with him later, as planned.  And their family would re-group, after their long hiatus.

Sam wondered idly, what that would look like.  Because things had changed, over these past few months.  Dean had changed.  And so had Sam.

It would be interesting to see how their dad responded to that.

But anyway.  First things first.

Dean, sleeping. 

Dean had given their room a cursory once over as soon as he’d opened the door (the hunter checking for anything out of place, _unnatural,_ that habit as automatic to Dean as breathing) and then flung himself down on a bed face first.  Asleep again, not even bothering to take off his shoes.

Sam had done that for him.  He’d pulled off Dean’s runners and socks and then, after a considering pause, turned his brother over and pulled off his jeans for him too, leaving Dean in his tshirt and shorts.  Dean had grumbled softly but didn’t open his eyes.  Sam lay down beside him and tucked the covers over them both, putting an arm around Dean and letting himself sink against the warm wall of his brother’s body.  He’d fallen asleep too.

And woken up several hours later, his stomach rumbling.

Dean was still sleeping.

Sam checked the time.  After seven.  They’d slept the day away.  And Sam was hungry.  He got himself up, made his way to the bathroom.  Exited, glanced over at Dean on the bed.

A motionless lump.

Well, Sam could get them both dinner.  This town had to have pizza, somewhere.  Sam located Dean’s wallet, ruffled through it.  Dean and him were seriously low on cash, hadn’t collected their last paycheques from Cal.  Sam pondered this.  Maybe they could call Cal, get him to wire them their money.  Yeah, that would work.  Of course, Cal would be seriously pissed at them for skipping out with no notice.  Sam sighed.  Well, he and Dean would deal with that tomorrow, along with everything else.  And maybe it would be safe to talk to their dad by then too.  They’d call Bobby first, check out the situation.

Sam slipped on his shoes.  Then went and leaned over Dean’s sleeping form.  Kissed him on the side of his head.  “I’m gettin us pizza,” he murmured.  Dean mumbled something back, not words.  Then he turned and buried his face in his pillow, folding his arms around it protectively.  Sam grinned.  He left.

Returned an hour later with an extra large pizza and a family size bottle of Coke.  Looked at Dean on the bed.

Sleeping like a baby.

Okay.  So Sam would let Dean sleep.  A little longer.   He shucked off his shoes and settled himself back down on the bed beside Dean, munching pizza and swigging Coke straight out of the bottle.  Turned on the TV. 

Hours later.  Sam had fallen asleep again, the pizza box balanced on his chest.  The TV was still on but just coloured wavy lines now.  Sam levered himself up, slid the pizza box onto the floor.  Turned the TV off.   Looked over at his sleeping brother.

Dean had this way of curling up on his side sometimes, with one hand bent under his cheek.  It made him look about five years old.  And he wasn’t pale anymore, his cheeks rosy with sleep, his skin glowing in the light of the bedside lamp.   He was breathing softly, evenly, his lips slightly parted. 

Sam watched this for awhile.   He was conscious of desire, kindling like a deep heat inside of him, a deep fire slowly building.    

Dean.  Dean was ready for him.

Dean’s eyes were open.  He hadn’t moved but his eyes were open, shadowy in the dim room.  He gazed at Sam silently, one hand still curled under his cheek.

Sam smiled at him.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dean said.

“Feelin better?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “How long was I out?”

“Awhile,” Sam said.  “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh,” Dean said.  He rolled onto his back, stretched.  Started to sit up.

“No,” Sam said.  “Stay there.”

Dean paused.  Looked at him.

Sam stood up.  He pulled his tshirt off.  Saw Dean’s eyes on him, Sam’s body with its lean muscles and satin skin, now marked with bruises, signs of the fight he’d gone into alone and nearly hadn’t come back from.

But he had come back.

“Just stay there,” Sam said.  “I’ll be right back.”  He walked over to the desk, to pick up the other thing he’d purchased while he was out.  A tube of Vaseline, picked up at a corner store.  Saw Dean’s eyes on this, widening.

“You c’n get rid of those,” Sam said, gesturing at Dean’s shorts.  “Tshirt, too.”  He was undoing his belt, unzipping his jeans, stepping out of them.  Pulling off his socks and shorts.

Dean hadn’t moved.

“Go on,” Sam said.  He was lubing himself up. 

Dean’s voice.  “Sammy-“

“It’s time, Dean,” Sam said.  He was standing over the bed.   Dean’s eyes were on his erect cock.  Sam smiled, ran one hand along its length.  “All slicked up.  It’s gonna slide into you good, big brother.”

Dean swallowed.  “Sam, I don’t-“

“-No,” Sam said.  He wasn’t smiling now.  “You promised.  You were givin me _everythin,_ remember?  _That’s_ what I was comin back to.  Well here I am.  And now it’s time.”

Dean stared at him.  He didn’t move.

Sam stared back.  “I’m not gonna force you,” he said.  “I’m not fightin you, Dean.  I’ve fought for you already.”

Dean, silent.  His eyes moving over the bruises on Sam’s skin.

“Take your clothes off,” Sam said.  “I want to see you.”

Dean staring at Sam’s face now.  Still quiet.  But then he slowly sat up.  And pulled his tshirt over his head. 

“Those too,” Sam whispered.  He gestured at Dean’s shorts.  And staring at his mostly naked brother, the hard, sculpted torso, the strong arms.   The fire inside him raging now.  “Take them off Dean,” Sam said softly.  “I want to see the rest of you.”

Dean hesitated.  His hands went to the waistband of his shorts, paused.  He glanced at Sam then looked away.

Sam couldn’t wait any longer.  He was beside Dean on the bed, one hand on his brother’s chest.  He pushed Dean flat down on his back.

“-Hey!“

“Shh,” Sam said.   His own hands were on the waistband of Dean’s shorts, yanking them off, the fabric catching briefly on Dean’s hard cock.  Sam sat back, looked at this.

“You’re ready for me,” he said.  “Aren’t you?”

Dean didn’t answer. 

Sam leaned forward, took his brother’s cock into his mouth.  Sucked back on it, hard.  Dean gasped.  “Sammy-“

“You’re ready for me,” Sam said.   He was running his tongue along the length of Dean’s cock.  Took the tip of Dean’s cock into his mouth.  Closed his mouth over it and _sucked._  Dean arched up.  “ _Sam!-“_

Sam released Dean’s cock.  Then put his lips against it and kissed it, tenderly.  “Raise your legs, Dean,” he murmured.

Dean didn’t move.   Sam put his hands on the back of Dean’s hips, pushed them up gently.  “Raise your legs,” Sam said again.  Dean looked at him.

Sam looked back.  “You’re stayin on your back,” he said again.  “I want to see your face when I fuck you.”   Dean looking at him, his eyes widening.  But then he looked away. 

Sam waited.  Then said, “Dean.  Raise your legs.”

Dean didn’t move.  He was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes distant.  

Sam watching this.

Then he leaned forward.  Kissed Dean on the mouth.  “I love you,” Sam said softly.  He kissed Dean on the mouth again.  “I came back to you,” he whispered.   Dean didn’t reply.  His eyes stayed looking up, off into some other place.  But his lips parted under Sam’s mouth.

Sam kissed him again, softly, tenderly.  “Come back to me,” he whispered.   Dean’s eyes closed.  “Sammy,” he whispered.  He raised his mouth.

Sam kissed him again.  “I’m here, big brother.”  And stroking Dean’s face now, running light fingers over Dean’s bruised cheek.  Dean’s lips were trembling.  “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.  His face twisted.

“I know,” Sam whispered.  “I’m sorry.  But I’m gonna make it up to you now.”

“Why?” Dean asked him.  His voice was very quiet.  “Why is this so important to you?”

“…I don’t know,” Sam said.  “But it is.  It always has been.”

“You’ve always wanted this,” Dean said. 

 _“You,”_ Sam said.  “I’ve always wanted _you.”_

“But _why?”_ Dean whispered.  And his voice was shaking.

Sam looked at him.  An image flashed through his mind.  Dean standing in Bobby’s kitchen, his own gun pressed against his side, his eyes wild.  Intent upon his own destruction but only to save his brother.  Not thinking about himself at all.  Sam felt sad, suddenly, and angry.  Dean’s raw voice.

_(Why?)_

His beautiful brother, so beautiful to everyone but himself.   

That Dean could even ask that question. 

But Dean’s eyes were on him now.   

That beautiful green gaze, no longer distant.  Just fixed on Sam now and utterly there, present.  Dean’s expression as he looked at Sam, broken open again.

Sam took this in.  And realized.  That _look._   That _look_ on his brother’s face, that Sam remembered from forever. 

That was why.  That open, broken look of Dean’s, that was _why._

Dean didn’t know, couldn’t know, how he looked when he looked like that.

But Sam wanted Dean, when he looked like that.  He wanted, _wanted_ him, his brother Dean with that look of his, that _Dean_ look, so characteristic of him and so beautiful to Sam.

But _why?_

Sam didn’t know.

“I don’t- “ he began.  But then he looked at Dean again, waiting patiently for Sam to answer him.

Just waiting, his eyes on Sam. 

Waiting.

For Sam’s words, which might hurt him.  Or might not.  Sam’s words which could always go either way for Dean, to wound or to heal, and Dean’s expression as he waited for this, fearful, hopeful.

But still waiting.  Open, to whatever would come.  Because whatever it was, it came from Sam.

“Just because,” Sam said to him, gently.  “Because you’re you.”

Dean, gazing at him.

Sam didn’t feel so gentle, suddenly.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “I want to fuck you, now.”  And his hands on Dean’s thighs, pushing them apart. 

Dean stared at him.  He wasn’t resisting.  But he wasn’t exactly cooperating, either.   Sam stared back.  He felt that fire in him blaze up suddenly, felt this, in his expression.  And Dean seeing this, his lips parting.

“You’re not tellin me no,” Sam said.  “Not this time.”

Dean didn’t answer.  He just looked at Sam, silently.

“Raise your legs,” Sam said.

Dean, staring at him.  He was breathing shallowly, his breath whispering between his lips.  Then slowly, he raised his legs.

“That’s it,” Sam whispered.  His eyes on Dean’s butt, turning up like a flower.  “Higher.”

Dean moved slightly.  Sam put his hands on the backs of Dean’s thighs and pushed them gently backwards.  “Higher,” he said.  He met Dean’s eyes again, held them.  “Higher,” he whispered.   Dean’s eyes on him.  Then he wriggled himself backwards, his butt all the way into the air now, thighs spread wide in a familiar position, the position that Sam had so often assumed for _him,_ when Sam was waiting to be fucked.

Sam was trying to put air into his lungs.  Dean’s dark little asshole, just there, exposed, puckered like a little mouth.  Sam’s cock was throbbing, painfully hard.  He picked up the tube of lube and squeezed some onto his fingers.  Then put his fingers onto Dean’s asshole, gently circling, massaging that silky, crinkled skin.  He slowly slipped one finger in.

Dean bit his lip.  But he stayed looking at Sam.  Didn’t say anything.  Didn’t move.

“I know it’s tight,” Sam said.  “I’ll try not to hurt you.”  His finger was deep in Dean’s body now, the blazing tight heat of Dean’s body.  Sam was shaking, trying not to lose control of himself.  Dean, Dean lying there, spread out for him, Dean waiting for him.  Sam slipped another finger in.

Dean closed his eyes.  Sam could see how he was holding himself still.  Sam was kneeling over him now.

“I’m puttin myself in,” Sam said.   He saw how Dean’s hands were clenched into the sheet under him.  Balled into fists.  “Don’t do that,” Sam said.  “Put your hands over your head.”  Dean took a breath.  Then raised his arms over his head, his hands open now, palms exposed.  “That’s it,” Sam whispered.  “Leave them there until I say.”  The tip of his cock was probing Dean’s asshole.  “Here goes,” Sam whispered.  He started to push in.

Dean gasped.  Winced.

“Stay still,” Sam whispered.  “It’ll get better.  Trust me.”

“Sammy,” Dean gasped.  “Ouch.”

Sam grinned.   “Don’t be a wimp,” he said.

Dean opened his eyes.  Glared at him.  Sam laughed.  “You c’n take it, big brother, I know you can.”

“Sammy-“ Dean said.

“Shh,” Sam said.  Said, “You’re so ready for this.  Here we go.”  And pushing, pushing in, feeling the hot give of Dean’s body, the silky tender flesh yielding to him so slowly, exquisitely.  The tight ring of muscle.

Dean had closed his eyes again.  He was gasping. 

“You’re so tight, big brother,” Sam whispered.  He was shaking with pleasure, almost dizzy with it.  Dean opening to him, receiving him, this overwhelming, almost painful pleasure of sinking into _Dean,_ Dean shuddering under him.  “Put your hands on me,” Sam whispered and Dean’s hands were on his body, Dean holding him, those strong hands on Sam’s body, gripping Sam fiercely.   “That’s it,” Sam whispered through his teeth.  God, his _cock,_ that slick slide of his cock into that hot flesh, so sweet.  _“There,”_ Sam whispered.  _“Amost there…hold on Dean…”_  The hiss of Dean’s breath.  “You’re doin so good,” Sam crooned.  And pushing.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  Sam felt him trembling, _knew_ what he feeling, that tight stretching pain, almost unbearable.  “Please…”

“Almost there, big brother,” Sam whispered.  “Just _hold on…”_ A sudden, final push and Dean’s body jerking up, coming up off the bed, Dean’s mouth open, crying out, a sound of pain that Sam sucked into his own mouth, now sealed tight against Dean’s mouth.

Dean’s body trembling.  Sam held him, chest heaving, his cock buried now, buried in Dean up to the hilt, throbbing against the slick, hot walls of Dean’s body.  “It’ll be okay,” Sam whispered.  “It’ll be okay, Dean.”  He started to move.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered.  His head rolled back.  _“Jesus-“_

“I’m fuckin you now,” Sam whispered.  His mouth on Dean’s throat, that soft soft skin.  And fucking him, fucking him, gently at first, but then harder, with a driving, building rhythm.  

Pushing down, driving in, finding his way now, deep into Dean’s body.  And a new feeling, too large, beyond words, rising up in his own body, this _feeling_ rising up, like tears but not tears.   This unutterable feeling, opening up inside of him, breaking out over him, breaking him open.

Sam learning his brother, in this new way.   

“Sammy,” Dean gasped.  _“Oh-“_

“Feels good, huh,” Sam said softly.  And thrusting into Dean hard now, deep into Dean’s body, Dean’s hot body under him, clutching his cock so tight.  “You feelin it now?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean whispered.

“You like me fuckin you?” Sam asked him.  He raised his head, looked down into his brother’s face, the closed eyes.  “Look at me,” Sam said.  Dean opened his eyes.  “You like this?” Sam asked.  And fucking, fucking into his brother so hard and smooth, with Dean receiving this, rocking with him now, the two of them moving together with the effortless rhythm they’d perfected, the pleasure showing on Dean’s face suddenly.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. 

“You love me?” Sam asked.  And staring down into his brother’s face, those green green eyes. 

“Yes,” Dean whispered.  And in his eyes now that _expression_ , that _look_ that would haunt Sam’s thoughts, that look he’d fought for, schemed for, hunted down…that he _wanted_...that _Dean_ look, drawing him in, endlessly…Dean’s look that completed things, made them perfect…that _everything_  look in his brother’s eyes that to Sam, in this moment, meant nothing but desire.

“Tell me again,” Sam murmured to him.  “The way I want.”  And rocking himself into Dean’s body, finding that perfect angle, the one that _he_ would wait for when he was under Dean, that perfect thrust against the deepest internal nerves, lighting them up.

“Oh,” Dean whispered.  He was shuddering.

 _“Tell me,”_ Sam said.  And thrusting again, hard this time, driving his cock into Dean, finding that _spot…_

 _“Yes_ Sammy…” Dean whispered.   And his eyes on Sam, so hazy and dark green, looking up at Sam, _looking at him,_ Dean’s beautiful eyes.

Sam smiled into Dean’s eyes.  Then he leaned forward, finding Dean’s mouth, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth and Dean receiving this, sucking on Sam’s tongue and Sam melting.  At this, the feel of Dean, Dean’s hot mouth, satin hot under Sam’s tongue and Dean’s silky hard body with the hot skin like fire and Sam's new knowledge of Dean’s body, that perfect body under Sam’s body, receiving him, engulfing him, the perfect, beautiful body of his brother, now pinned beneath Sam’s cock, _taking_ Sam's thrusting cock, taking it so trembling and deep.   

“Come for me,” Sam whispered.  “Come for me, Dean,” and Dean trembling.  But then Dean’s arms and legs suddenly clamped around him, Dean arching up against him, clutching Sam fiercely and Sam felt the deep internal quivering, the sudden, wonderful clench around his cock, Dean’s body tightening around him, impossibly, and Dean moaning now against Sam’s mouth, a helpless, abandoned sound that Sam hadn’t heard from him before and then shuddering in Sam’s arms, Dean’s cock suddenly slick and wet against Sam’s belly and Sam felt himself release at this, deep inside his brother’s body, a shattering, bursting pleasure and he was crying out, beyond words, but then covering Dean’s mouth with his own again and drinking in his brother’s helpless moans, the two of them now clutched together, skin to skin, shuddering, moaning, breathing together like one body with gasping, heaving, painful breaths and it was just this, just Dean and him in this, so deep within each other, so buried in this together, just so buried within this so deep deep together and lost, lost within this final, shattering, stunning wave of pleasure, rolling over both of them.

Silence.

The two of them lying there, sticky with sweat. 

Sam collapsed on Dean, boneless, letting Dean take his weight. 

“I love you too,” he murmured.

“Uh huh.”   Dean’s voice, rather dry.   Then, “Sammy…you’re squashin me.”

Sam didn’t move.   “Yeah,” he said happily.  “I know.”  And lay there.

Dean was quiet for another moment.  Then shifted restlessly.  “Sammy…seriously…”

Sam let himself slide off Dean’s body then flung an arm possessively across his brother’s chest.  “That was awesome,” he said.  “Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

Dean laughed, then groaned.  “I’m not gonna be able to walk.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said.  “I don’t need you to.”

Dean snorted.  “Very funny,” he said.

“ _I_ thought so,” Sam said.  He was smiling.  He nuzzled his face into Dean’s throat.  “All mine mine mine,” he murmured.  Dean snorted softly with laughter again.  Sam grinned.  “Happy I’m back?” he asked.

“Sammy…don’t joke about that.” Dean replied.  He sounded serious now.  “That was the worst twenty-four hours of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.  He’d stopped smiling.  “I’m sorry that happened, Dean.”

“No,” Dean said.  “Don’t apologize.  You made the situation right.  Like you said, earlier.”

“The situation _I_ created,” Sam said.

Dean sighed.  “You didn’t create it, Sam.  It, like, created itself.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“This thing…” Dean hesitated.  Then continued.  “This thing we have between us…it’s wild, Sam.  Wild, like wildfire.  Sometimes it’s just gonna have to burn.”

“So you mean…what happened was inevitable?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean answered.  “ You ‘n’ me being with Rhonda…that was a situation just primed for disaster.  At some point it was gonna explode.”  He sighed again.  “And I knew that goin in but…I just…let it happen, I guess.  I gave in.”

“You gave in to _me,”_ Sam said, sadly now.  “It was my fault.”

“No,” Dean said.  “I gave in to _us._ I _saw,_ Sammy, that what we were doin there was a critical thing for you _…_ and I’m _with_ you, I don’t exactly have a choice on that, so…”  He shrugged.

“So you just let me have my way,” Sam said.  “Went with my bad judgement.”

Dean was quiet.  Then said, “I can’t control you Sammy, though Jesus knows I’ve tried.  _You’re_ like wildfire.  You just burn ‘n’ I try to survive it.  And I don’t know that your judgement was bad, exactly.  Maybe it was just time, that’s all.   There’s a place for wildfires, you know.  In nature.”

“Wow,” Sam said.  “That’s deep.  I’m kinda impressed.”

“Fuck off,” Dean said.

Sam laughed.   Then stopped.  “So there’s a place for _us,_ you mean,” he said.  “When everythin comes down to it.”

“Maybe so,” Dean said.

“A place for _me,”_ Sam said.  Tears were in his eyes, suddenly.  “I’m not just a freak.”

Dean put his arms around him.  “When somethin’s so rare that we don’t understand it…can’t place it…can’t figure it out…we call it a freak.  But we’re wrong, Sammy.  We’re just not recognizin that thing for what it is.  But that’s on _us._   Cause we don’t have the knowledge yet.  Or we’ve forgotten that we do, one way or the other.”

“So that goes for me?” Sam asked.

“That goes for you,” Dean said.  “You’re such a rare person, Sammy, you’re, like…someone who comes around once in a lifetime.  A thousand lifetimes.  A million.”

Sam was crying.  “And you’re okay with that, Dean?  You’re okay with me…bein like that?”

Dean kissed him.  “I’m okay with that.  I wouldn’t have you any other way, Sammy.  Not even if you burn me to the ground.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam whispered.   Tears were running down his face.  He turned and wiped them on Dean’s chest.  “Please Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean murmured.   He’d put his lips in Sam’s hair.  Sam felt the soft whisper of his breath.   “I won’t say it.”  And he kissed Sam again. 

Sam pressed himself into Dean’s side.   His brother’s strong arms around him.  “I’m sorry I freaked out on you like I did,” he said into Dean’s throat.  “I’m sorry I hit you.  You didn’t deserve that.”

“Like I said,” Dean said.  “Things got out of control.  The _situation,_ right?  It’s okay.”

“No,” Sam said.  “It’s not okay.  I shouldn’t have lost it like that.  Not when you were…you know, just…anyway, I’m sorry.”

Dean was quiet. 

Sam lifted his face from Dean’s throat, peered up at him.  Dean was staring at the ceiling again.

“…Dean?”

Dean staring upwards, his eyes distant.  “What did you see, Sammy?” he asked after a moment.  “When you walked in on me ‘n’ Rhonda?  What did you see that made you so mad?”

“I saw you…” Sam said.  He paused.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam was shaking suddenly.  His words, his next words…Dean would remember them, Sam saw.  He saw that.  How those words would sink beneath Dean’s skin.  Words like poison.  Words like medicine.  Sam’s words, that Dean would remember.   And carry with him.

“I saw you…bein like me,” Sam said.  “The way _I_ get, when I’m doin what you want.  I could see it, in your face.  That…

_(surrender)_

_…_ feelin, that I get.  You know?”

Dean, quiet.

“I’ve been wantin to…see that…with you,” Sam continued.   And shaking, barely able to speak.  “But not the way it happened.”

“...You want to see that again?” Dean asked, after a moment.

Sam closed his eyes.  “Yeah,” he whispered.

Dean was quiet.  Sam lay beside him, conscious of his brother’s body, this strong, hard body stretched out beside him, breathing quietly.

_Dean._

“Okay,” Dean said.

Sam opened his eyes. 

“What?” he asked.

“You’ll see it again,” Dean said. 

Sam felt something indescribable blooming in his chest.  This.  This was.  This was too-

_(sweet for words)_

Sam wasn’t dreaming.   Was he?

“You promise?” Sam asked.   And staring at Dean now with intent, unblinking eyes, the hunter’s stare, Sam couldn’t hide it anymore, couldn’t soften it down, couldn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.

Dean, Dean in his sights.

Dean was still looking at the ceiling.  But then he glanced at Sam, casually at first but then again, his face changing as he registered the look in Sam's eyes.   They watched each other silently. 

Then Dean smiled.  “Yeah,” he said. 

Sam watched him.  He didn’t smile back.

Dean’s expression, tender now, and somewhat wry.  “I promise, okay?” he said.  “But not tomorrow.  We’ve got a lot of things to sort out tomorrow, includin Dad.”  Then he grinned at Sam, briefly.  “I need to be walkin.”

“Okay,” Sam said after a moment.   And now smiling uncontrollably, from ear to ear.  “That’s okay, Dean!  We c’n sort out the other stuff first, I guess.  No problem!   I guess I c’n wait another day.”

Dean laughed.   He closed his eyes, threw an arm over his face.  “Jesus,” he muttered.  “What’ve I got myself into.”

Sam started kissing him.  He moved Dean’s arm out of the way and began kissing him, Dean’s mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead, his mouth again, Sam kissing kissing kissing Dean, all over his face.  “I love you,” Sam whispered.   And kissing him.  “You’re my biiiiig brother.”

“Yup,” Dean said.  His eyes had stayed closed under all the kisses and he had this patient, _enduring_ look on his face that made Sam’s heart expand in his chest.  “That’s me.”

“You’re a rare person too, Dean,” Sam said.  “It’s not just me.”  And kissing him.  “You’re once in a million lifetimes too,” Sam whispered.

“Maybe I am,” Dean said.  Then said, “I don’t know.”

“You are,” Sam whispered.  Then said, “You’re _my_ rare person, Dean.  All mine.”

“All yours,” Dean replied quietly. 

Sam kissed him one more time.  Then laid himself back down on Dean’s chest.  Hugged him, hard.

“Oof,” Dean said.

“Am I squashin you again?” Sam asked.  And putting his face into Dean’s chest.

“It’s okay,” Dean said.   He was holding Sam now, his arms around Sam’s back.

“Okay,” Sam replied.

They lay there.

“You got pizza?” Dean asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled.  “It’s on the floor.  You want some?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  “Lemme get up first though.  Put some clothes on.”

“I dunno about that,” Sam said.  “I like you naked.”

Dean snorted.  “Fuck off.”

Sam laughed.  He sat up, looked down at his beautiful brother.  “So get dressed then,” he said generously.

Dean gazed at him.  Then pulled him down.  Tucked Sam’s head under his chin, arranged Sam’s arms back around his body.  He put his lips in Sam’s hair.  “In a minute,” he said.  “I need you to squash me some more first.”  He sounded happy.

Sam smiled. 

“Okay,” he said.

 


	47. Chapter 47

Mary…I’m hoping you’d be proud of them.  They’re young men now, both of them, your sons.

Hunters now, both of them.

I really don’t know how you’d feel about that.

But I hope you’d be proud.

Because they’re doing what needs to be done, Mary.  And they’d want you to be proud of them.

Your sons.  Sam and Dean…remember how you wanted them named after your parents?  Your dead parents who you’d never talk about because they were the family that you didn’t have any more, that you’d moved on from, you said.

That you’d _had_ to move on from, you said.

And I took you at your word, I never asked, not after you asked me not to, that first time. 

I respected your silence, Mary.

But when I saw your face, when you told me you wanted to name our first born after your dead mother…and then Sam, after your dad, that hard bastard Samuel…

I still never asked.

Even though something in me went cold, at what I saw in your eyes.

But I didn’t ask.  I respected your silence.

I guess because I understood your need for it, Mary.

That need for silence.  I understood that.

I never told you about Sweats, Mary, me holding his hand, as he lay dying. 

I never told you about that.

Because sometimes silence is necessary.   

To keep on going.  Breathing. 

I know that and so do you.

I killed Sweats, Mary.

I killed him because…I couldn’t take him with me.  And I couldn’t leave him for the enemy, not with what they were doing at that time, to the captured.  And Sweats got that.  He understood. 

But it’s still something I can’t talk about.  To anybody, not even another hunter.

Although they’d get it, I know. 

But still, that death is my burden to bear, alone.

Just like you had burdens to bear.  Alone, I saw that.  Your eyes, I saw what was in them.  I got it.

So I never asked you about what I saw in your beautiful green eyes, Mary.

I respected you, Mary.

Mary.

I wish you were with me.  I wish you were alive.

Things would be different, if you were alive.

I’d be different.  And our sons, they’d be different. 

If you’d been here, Mary.

But we…made it, Mary.  We made it, even when I could barely hold on, some days.

But I kept our family together.  And it wasn’t easy.  It would have been easier, a lot easier, to give them up and go my own way.  Alone.  To avenge your death, alone.  Or to join you there, I thought about that too, no lie.

But I didn’t.  Because of our boys.

Our boys.  But they hurt my heart, Mary, Dean and Sam.  They hurt my heart even though they’re…they are magnificent, Mary, I think you _would_ be proud of them.  Your sons, they are weapons, Mary.  Weapons of this final war.  And we will win, Mary.  We will eliminate the evil that killed you, eliminate it from the earth.  Your sons and I…we will prevail.  I swear it.

But I think I…fucked up. 

I didn’t mean to.  I didn’t _mean_ to. 

But I think I fucked up, still.

But I don’t know.

For sure.

Because things are complicated.

Especially with Sammy.

Your baby boy…he’s a handful, Mary.  I don’t know what to make of him, half the time.  And I think I might’ve made a mistake, leaving his raising so much to Dean. 

I think I fucked up, with that.

Thing was…I couldn’t, I couldn’t…it _had_ to be Dean, Mary.  It had to be him, our firstborn, stepping up.  And taking your place for me, Mary, for Sammy, there.

Dean…he wears your face, Mary.  I look at Dean and I see you.  And it hurts me, but I need it, Mary.  I need to see you there, in him. 

See, after you died I couldn’t…

I couldn’t look after Sammy.

I could barely even _look_ at him.

Because I knew, somehow, that he was the cause of your death.

I knew it.

And I wanted to give him up, Mary.  I wanted him _gone,_ I’m so sorry about that.  And I thought, sometimes, that I’d _make_ him gone.  By accident, almost, you know?  Losing it with Sammy once too often.

It would have been _easy_ for me for me to lose it like that, Mary.  Except for Dean.  Dean saved me, there.  He saved me and Sammy, both.

So I kept Sammy.  I kept our family together.

Because of Dean.  And because of the memory, Mary, of you with your arms around your baby boy.

So I kept Sammy, and let him grow up knowing his brother and his father…

Because of you.  And Dean.  My two angels.

But Sammy was Dean’s to raise, Mary.  More Dean’s to raise than mine.

But Dean was _okay_ with that.  He _was,_ Mary, I swear.  Him and Sammy…they were inseparable.  Too much for my liking, sometimes.  And I couldn’t do anything about that, eventually, even though I wanted to.  Dean wouldn’t have it.  So I left it, even though maybe I shouldn’t’ve.

But Sammy…he worries me.  And it’s hard to describe how.  Sometimes I think it’s just _me,_ lettin that little bugger drive me batshit.  I mean, he’s smart as shit, stubborn as fuck, as weird as a fuckin night owl, and tryin to reason with him’s like talkin to a wall…I know, I know, you’re rolling your eyes right now, yeah, he’s my kid alright, I get it.  But it’s not just that.  Sometimes I…just don’t know.

Sammy.  Sam.  Samuel.  There’s a story there, isn’t there?  Your baby boy was Samuel Campbell’s namesake for a reason.  You never told me but I knew.  I knew there was something. 

There’s a dark story in the blood of the Campbells, isn’t there?

I saw it, Mary, I saw that darkness in you, whispering under that satin skin of yours.  There was something about yourself that you weren’t sharing, something you didn’t want me to know.

Something you were protecting me from.  Did it have to do with Sam?

I’m not an idiot, Mary.  I knew something was up.  I was in love with you, yes.  But I’m not an idiot.

Except for the fact that I would have taken you, regardless.  Married you regardless of any story, till death do us part.  It wouldn’t have mattered, Mary.  It _didn’t_ matter, to me.  You were always more important than anything else.  I wish you’d believed that.  I wish you’d trusted me.

It might have made a difference, me knowing your full story.  Made a difference between Sammy and me, later.  I might have felt differently about him.  Who knows?

But I kept Sammy anyway, Mary.  After you died.  I kept him for Dean.  Because Dean reminded me of you.

He was all I had left of you, Mary.  Dean, _your_ angel, who made things okay for you when I couldn’t.  Who came to us after the death of your parents, life after death, a healing.

I couldn’t take his brother away from him, not after he’d already lost his mother.

Dean.  Dean was all I had left. 

Of you.

He has your face, Mary.  Your beautiful, angel face.

So I couldn’t…I couldn’t, Mary.

I couldn’t hurt Dean again.

So I gave in.  I took the easy road.

I didn’t make the hard call.

But maybe I should’ve.  I think maybe I should’ve.

Sammy…I don’t know about him, Mary. 

I don’t understand him, Mary.

And I don’t know that Sammy’s been so good for Dean, Mary.  After all’s said and done.

I just don’t know.  That I did the right thing.

Sammy worries me, Mary.  He always has.

He’s different, that kid.  He’s just…different, it’s hard to describe.

It’s hard to love him, Mary.  I’ve tried, believe me.  He’s my son too, I know that. 

I mean…I _do_ love him, Mary. 

It’s just that…I don’t feel it, most days.

But maybe you’d understand.

Maybe you’d understand where I’m coming from.  I hope you would.  And maybe you’d understand Sammy, how he is.  I mean, you understood _me,_ didn’t you? 

Maybe you’d understand about all of it.

About why I did what I did.

You always understood me, Mary.

In the end.  You did.  You understood me.

And maybe you’d understand what to do, right now.  What I should do.

The right call.

Does it _always_ have to be the hard call?

Mary.

I wish I had you with me, right now.

I’m sorry, Mary.

I’m sorry that you’re dead.

And I wish I could forgive Sammy for that.  I know you’d want me to.

And I wish I knew that I was…

Doing the right thing.

Because I want you to be _proud_ of us, Mary, all of us.  Your sons.  And me.

And I want you to say that I’ve done the right thing for them.  And for _us,_ for your memory, Mary.  For the greater good.

When all’s said and done.

***

Things were better between Sam and their dad.

Dean had been pretty worried about that.

Like, kind of terrified actually, although he hadn’t let on.

John didn’t take kindly to being dissed.  And Sam had just dissed him royally and not only that, he’d gotten Dean _and_ Bobby to diss him too.

And their dad _not_ happy about that.  Not at all.

And Sam, he…didn’t give a shit.

So.

Dean wasn’t positive that Sam and their dad could be in the same room together right now without violence.  

He kind of wondered, in fact, if Sam might _want_ that. 

_(We have to leave Dad, Dean, before someone dies.)_

It could very well come to that.  And how could Dean have a problem with that?

And Dean wouldn’t, actually.  He’d take Sammy and go, just like he’d promised, so long ago.

But he’d _also_ asked Sam not to put him in that position.  Force Dean choose between his brother and his father.

And to his credit, Sam hadn’t.  Ever.

But Dean had always kind of wondered whether Sam had hoped their _dad_ would force that choice…

But _John_ hadn’t.

Hadn’t ever, and not this time, either.

Their dad was too smart, Dean figured.  He didn’t play a game he couldn’t win.

Thing was, neither did Sam.

***

It was kind of funny, actually, how careful Sam and their dad were with each other now.

Dean hadn’t been too hopeful, not after that last conversation with Bobby.

“You _what?”_ Dean had asked.  He was clutching his cell phone to his ear, Sam staring at him. 

“I pulled my shotgun on that sonofabitch,” Bobby said.  “Told him to get the hell off my property.”

Dean closed his eyes.  “Bobby,” he said.  “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry Dean, but your dad said some things that just stuck in my craw,” Bobby said.  “I’m afraid John ‘n’ me…we’ve come to a parting of ways.”

“Over what happened with Sam?” Dean asked.  Sam’s eyes on him, widening.

“Yeah…but that wasn’t the only thing,” Bobby said.  “It’s been comin a long time actually, Dean.  I haven’t been real easy with John ever since the…you know, that thing with you.  When _you_ were tranced.  That was the wrong call, in my opinion and I let John know it.  And things haven’t been the same between me ‘n’ him since.  I stuck with John because of you boys…but…honestly…he was on thin ice with me.  And he didn’t respect that.  And then him thinkin he could say what he said to me…in my own home…”

“What did he _say?”_ Dean asked.

“…Never mind,” Bobby said.  “It’s not important.  What’s important is…Dean…you ‘n’ Sam always have a place with me, you know that.  Now I’m not askin you to go against your own dad, but I don’t want you to forget that, okay?  Even if John asks you to.”

“…Okay,” Dean said.  “We won’t forget that, Bobby.”

“And you tell Sam to stick up for himself,” Bobby said.  “Stick to his guns, even if John leans on him hard.  Because Sam was right, tellin me off like he did.  Settin me straight.  Because he _is_ a hunter now and hunters aren’t soldiers, son.  We’re not meant to blindly follow orders.  We’re meant to use our heads and trust our guts and if you’re a hunter ‘n’ you forget that, you’re gonna get dead pretty darn fast.  John might’ve raised you ‘n’ Sam like soldiers but if he expects you to be _hunters_ …well…he’s gotta remember that those rules don’t just apply to him.  So you tell Sam that, from me.”

“I will, Bobby,” Dean said.

“And Dean…that goes for you too,” Bobby said.  His voice had gentled.  “I know your path hasn’t been an easy one, son, and I know how much your dad relies on you, to say nothin of _Sam._   But don’t forget…you’re more than that.  Just don’t forget that, okay Dean?”

“…Okay, Bobby,” Dean said.   He looked over at Sam again.  Those wide eyes on him, blinking.  “I won’t forget,” Dean said.

“You’re a hunter in your own right, not just a soldier in John’s army,” Bobby said.  “Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Dean said.

“You belong to yourself too,” Bobby said.  “It’s not just Sam.  You understand that, son?”

“Sure,” Dean said.  He was starting to feel impatient.  I mean, he knew Bobby _meant_ well, but after all, Bobby hadn’t exactly fixed the pending problem of Dad.  All he’d done was take himself out of the picture.  John was still Dean’s problem.

“Where’s Dad now?” Dean asked.

“Dunno,” Bobby said.  “We weren’t exactly exchanging itineraries, at the end.”

Dean sighed.  “Okay, Bobby.  Thanks for everything.”

“Keep in touch, Dean, okay?”  Bobby said. 

“I will,” Dean said politely.  “Thanks again.”

“Sure,” Bobby replied quietly.  “Goodbye, son.”

“Bye,” Dean said.  He hung up.  Looked at Sam.

“Sounds like Bobby didn’t calm Dad down,” Sam said.

“Nope,” Dean said.  He felt very tired. 

“So what you want to do?” Sam asked.

“I dunno,” Dean said.  “I mean, I want to meet up with him, like we planned, but…” he looked at his brother again.

“You think me ‘n’ Dad are gonna have a blowout,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean said. 

Sam gazed at him.  Then said, “We’re not havin a blowout.”

“What makes you so sure?” Dean said. 

“Because I’ll make it so that won’t happen,” Sam said.

Dean snorted.  “How’re you gonna do that?  Your record with him isn’t exactly stellar.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I didn’t care, before,” Sam said.   “I didn’t care enough about makin him happy.”

Dean snorted again, with laughter this time.  “No shit,” he said.  “And you do now?”

Sam shrugged.  “Not really,” he said lightly.  But then he met Dean’s eyes.  “But I care about you,” he said in a different voice.   “And I want things to go easier for you, between him ‘n’ me.”

Dean looked back at him.  He wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“I guess it was _that,_ that I didn’t care enough about,” Sam said.  “I didn’t get it, I guess, the way I do now.  I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t hold Sam’s gaze, suddenly.  He looked down.

“I’m gonna be smart about that, now,” Sam said.  “Like I wasn’t, before.”

“Smart,” Dean repeated, after a moment.  “Okay.  So how’s that gonna look?  What are you planning on _doin,_ Sam?”

Sam grinned at him, suddenly.  “Well, first thing I’m doin is…findin a barber,” he said.

***

Sam and John, standing in the motel parking lot, gazing at each other calmly.

Dean watching this.  Not so calmly. 

John, observing his younger son with dark, considering eyes, flashing gold suddenly in the warm light of the dying day.  And Sam holding still under this, meeting that gaze with a dark gold gaze of his own.

Dean, watching.  Jesus, those two looked _exactly_ like each other.  Why hadn’t he noticed before?

“Sam,” their dad said.

“Dad,” Sam replied.

“You don’t look like a girl anymore,” John said.  “Congratulations.”

Sam’s hand went to his hair, fingers running through the ruffle of bangs.  “Girls have short hair too,” he replied calmly.

Dean glared at him.  How was _that_ being smart, exactly?

Their dad staring at Sam, but he was smiling slightly, now.  “That all you got to say?”

Sam ran his hand over his head again, the short silky hair, almost as short as Dean’s now.  “Yup,” he said.   And was quiet.

John was quiet too.  Dean watched this tensely.  Their dad smiling, but Dean could see that this could go either way.  John could still lose his temper.  He could still blow. 

And Sam saw this too, Dean knew.  Sam was standing dead still.

But then John laughed, rather sourly.  “Oh, I could say plenty,” he replied.

Sam didn’t move.  But then he smiled back, sweet as pie.  “I know,” he said.  “But you won’t.”

“And why’s that?” their dad asked.  But Dean saw a shift in his posture, a subtle revving down.  John was playing along, not pouncing on Sam yet.  Dean took a breath.

“Because you’re done with all that redundant shit,” Sam replied.  “Same as me.”

Dean tensed again.

Their dad.  “That…I’m…” 

A pause.

 _“What?”_ their dad asked.  He was frowning now.

“Redundant,” Sam repeated calmly.  “It means-“

“-I _know_ what it means,” their dad snapped.  “That’s not my question, Sam!”

“Oh I know,” Sam said.  “I know what your question is.  And you’ve already answered it.  Dad.”  And now smiling again, in that particularly aggravating Sammy way.  Little know-it-all.  Their dad’s face went dark.

Dean watched this unhappily.  What the fuck was Sammy _doing?_  

But then Sam said, “I’m here.  I’m ready.”  And meeting their dad’s eyes, not smiling now. 

John was silent.  Staring at him.

 _“That’s_ the answer to your question,” Sam continued.  “The _only_ question that matters.”  And standing quiet under their dad’s gaze. 

But then Sam said, lightly, “You get it.”  And he smiled a little, like he couldn’t help himself.

Their dad, staring at him.  Dean, staring at their dad.  John’s face was still but Dean could see his thoughts, reading their dad with the insight of years.

_Jesus.  I’ve left my hunt and driven half way across the country for this fuckin attitude?_

Dean saw their dad’s eyes harden.  He stood tensely, ready to spring forward, to put himself in front of Sam, to execute the familiar next step of their sad little family dance. 

But then seeing John’s next expression and understanding that too. 

 _Look at that kid.  If I get mad at him then I just look stupid.  Yellin at Sammy because he’s talkin circles around me.  Like he_ always _does, showin off, rubbin it in that he’s always two steps ahead of everyone else._

And now a look of exhaustion.  Frustration.  Dean recognized this.  He’d felt it often enough on his _own_ face, when he went up against Sam in an argument.

 _Sam.  Just waiting for me to yell at him like a fool.  Or give in and admit that I_ don’t _get him.  Like I never have.  And he knows it._

Dean saw their dad staring at Sam like he was really seeing him, suddenly.  And he was terrified at something he saw in John’s face. 

_(Disrespect me at your own risk, Sammy)_

“Dad,” Dean said.  “Sam’s ready to hunt with us.  And he wants to.  That’s all he meant.” 

Now Sam glaring at _him,_ all pissy.  Dean ignored this, kept his eyes on their dad.  Said, “All Sam’s sayin is… _that’s_ the thing that’s important now.  More important than anythin else.” 

John’s eyes on Sam again.  “Is that so?” he asked.  Dean was looking at Sam now too, trying to communicate something, silently.

_Please Sammy.  Be smart about this.  You don’t always have to be right._

“Yeah,” Sam said, after a moment.  “That’s all I meant.”  

Their dad, watching him.  Dean saw his eyes go to Sam’s hair again, so painfully short now, shorter than it had been in _years,_ since Sam had been a skinny little kid.

“The only thing that matters, huh?” John said.  He gestured at Sam’s head.  “Just like that.”

“Yup,” Sam said again.  And serious again.  Holding himself still.

“…So you think you’re a hunter now, Sammy?” their dad said. 

“I know it,” Sam replied.  “And so do you.”  John was silent. 

“Spirit blood isn’t red, is it?” Sam said.  His voice was calm.  “It bleeds black.”

Dean was cold suddenly.  He shivered.  Sam’s eyes on this.

John was looking at Dean too.  Stared at him for a moment.  Then back at Sam.  “You have spirit blood on your hands, Sammy?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Sam replied.  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”  And now his voice was light again.  Casual.  He might have been talking about the weather.

But Dean was cold.  He stared at his little brother, wanting to touch Sam suddenly, to put his hands on Sam’s skin.  He didn’t though.  Not with their dad standing there.

Their dad, regarding Sam consideringly.  Then Dean saw him make up his mind.  John reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair.

“I’m glad to see you, son,” he said.  His voice was rough.  “I was real worried about you.”

Dean saw Sam’s face change.  His brother looked years younger suddenly, a kid again. 

“You _were?”_   Sam said.  And his voice was younger too.  He stood there uncertainly, hands loose at his sides.

“Of course,” their dad said.  “How c’n you even ask that?”

Sam stood there.  He was at a loss, Dean realized painfully, he didn’t know what to do next.  Dean started to move towards him, to put his hands on Sam after all, fuck whatever their dad might think.

But then John said, “C’mere.”  He opened his arms.

Sam stared at this.  But after a moment he stepped forward.  Their dad hugged him.  Sam was still.  But then his own arms came up to clasp closely around their dad’s broad back.   Dean watched this, a lump in his throat.  Sam stood taller than their dad now.  But then Sam bent his head down towards John’s shoulder, hiding his face.

“I’m ready to hunt,” Sam mumbled into their dad’s shirt.

“I know,” John said.  “I get it.”  His hand came up to clasp the back of Sam’s head.  “We’re gonna go out together, you, me ‘n’ your brother,” he murmured.  Dean saw Sam’s head dip lower, Sam leaning into John now, resting his weight against their dad’s body.  Dean swallowed.  He couldn’t remember _ever_ having seen that, not even when Sammy was small.

But then their dad put his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pushed him away.  Stood back, observing his younger son.  Said, “You’re gonna show me your stuff.  The new Sam.  Back from the dead.”  And now he was smiling, like this was a joke.

Sam didn’t smile back.  “…So we’re cool,” he said.

John nodded.  “Yeah.” 

“Cause me huntin…that covers everything,” Sam said.  And his voice was cool now, too.  Controlled.  “Cause _whatever_ happened to me over there…it doesn’t matter now.  Cause I came back from it ready to hunt.  And that’s all you really care about.  In the end.”

“Yup,” their dad said.  Without hesitation.  “That’s about right.”

Sam staring at him, steady.

“Like you knew already,” John said.  “Smart-ass.”

Sam gazing at him.  Not smiling.

Their dad shrugged.  “You’re ready to hunt with me, son, you’ll prove yourself in the field.  Or not.”

And now _Sam_ smiled.  “And if I don’t…you’ll be ready.”

“Yeah,” their dad replied quietly.  “Whichever way you prove yourself…however this goes down…I’ll be ready.”

“Like always,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” John replied.

And the two of them standing there, smiling at each other in the light of the setting sun, Dean watching this.  He was cold again.

Sam and John, sizing each other up like enemies.  It was there, plain to see, unmistakeable, unavoidable, there in the hard, smiling eyes of their dad, in Sam’s calm smiling eyes.

Enemies. 

But-

It was more than that.

His brother, his dad, staring at each other like they _knew_ each other.  Knew each other in a way that Dean didn’t.

Sam and John, citizens of a country unknown to Dean, their eyes meeting in mutual recognition.  And that shared, smiling gaze, like they _appreciated_ that knowing.  Felt it, like love.

Because…they couldn’t _play_ each other. 

And they got that.  Appreciated it.

Dean saw this, suddenly, with bone chilling clarity. 

Those two, knowing that they couldn’t.

Do that.

Not like they could play him.

***

Sam loved playing with him.

Now that he had access to Dean’s body, _all_ of it …

He couldn’t get enough of it.

It was kind of cute, actually, how thrilled Sam was with that.  Endearing.  Sort of.

Sam and Dean, the door to their latest nowhere motel shut behind them, a few hours free before they met up with their dad for a final briefing and then out into the night and their latest hunting ground, a farmer’s field that had been the scene of a grisly find, a man’s body ravaged, half chewed away, the man a stranger to those parts, a drifter, or at least that’s what the locals said.  But in the man’s mouth an ancient coin, Abyssinian, a mystery how it had gotten there.  A mystery that had brought John.  And his sons, of course.

And tonight, tonight would be the test.  Of their theory (Sam’s actually), and the spell fire that their dad would set, using incantations gleaned from John’s near eidetic memory and verified on the phone with Bobby ( _Dean_ verifying these with Bobby that is, with John hovering silently over Dean’s shoulder, Bobby’s pleased voice on the other line, pleased until he realized this was only a hunting call, not an Uncle Bobby call).  But anyway, something would come tonight, spell-drawn through the flames.  And die there, if everything went according to plan.

But that was for later.  Right now, they were resting up.

Sort of.

Dean, closing the motel room door, locking it.  Then suddenly Sam, whirling him around, crowding in on him, slamming Dean up against the door, that hot smooth mouth descending.

“Sam,” Dean mumbling.  When he could speak.  “Stop.  I gotta check the room.”  Sam’s mouth on his again.

“It’s fine,” Sam saying through kisses.  “Nothin’s changed since this mornin.”  And kissing Dean hard, putting his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

Dean giving this another exquisite second, then speaking.  “Yeah, but I gotta check anyways Sammy.  Protocol.  C’mon.”

Sam sighing.  _“I’ll_ check.  You stay there.”  And stepping back, letting Dean take a breath.  Dean opened his eyes.  Sam standing there, smiling at him.  “Stay there.”  Those eyes on him, like dark honey.  “Stay where I put you.”

Dean smiling slightly at this, his cock hard in his jeans, his back and butt pressed against the cold surface of the door.  He leaned his head back, flattening his hands behind him.  Saw Sam’s glint of appreciation at this.  Then Sam turned away, quickly casing the room.

He was back.  Leaning into Dean, that slim, strong body pressed tight against Dean’s body, Sam’s cock pressed between Dean’s legs.  Sam’s hands on Dean’s body, running up under his shirt, finding skin.  Finding Dean’s nipples, thumbs rubbing over them, circling.  Pinching, gently.

Dean’s rough moan.  He thrust his cock up hard against Sam’s cock.  Felt Sam smile against his mouth.

“You want it, big brother?” Sam whispered.  “You want my cock?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered back.  He was rock hard, shuddering.

“Made you want it, huh?” Sam whispered.  And biting Dean’s lower lip.  Then his tongue, licking away the faint sting.  “How bad you want my cock, Dean?”

“Real bad,” Dean whispered back.  His hands were on Sam’s hips, pulling Sam closer. 

Sam bent his head down, started nuzzling Dean’s ear.  Licked Dean’s ear.   “What you want me to do to you, Dean?” he whispered.  “Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” Dean whispered back.  He tilted his hips up, grinding himself against Sam’s cock.  Felt Sam smile, again.  “Okay,” Sam whispered.  “Turn around.”

Dean hesitated.  Sam hadn’t fucked him standing up before.  Dean had done that to _Sam,_ but never the other way.  Since they’d started this, Sam had always fucked him on a bed.  Sam bit down on his earlobe, tugged it gently.  “C’mon,” he said.

Dean turned around.  Put his hands up against the door.  Sam’s sure hands on his belt buckle, buttons, zipper, Sam pulling his jeans and shorts down around his ankles.

“Lemme take my boots off,” Dean muttered.  The cool air on his butt.

“No,” Sam said.  “I like you like this.”  And running his hands down Dean’s thighs, those strong, intelligent fingers digging into the muscles there.  “Spread ’em,” Sam whispered.  “As wide as you can.”

Dean took a breath.  Then spread his legs apart, straining against barrier of his clothing, stretched tight around his ankles now.

“That’s it,” Sam whispered.  And then a hand between Dean’s legs, warm palm cupping Dean’s balls, strong fingers and thumb wrapping around Dean’s cock.  Sam’s thumb, rubbing over the tip of Dean’s cock, finding the moisture there, sliding it around.

“Oh,” Dean said.  Through his teeth.  “Sam _fuck,_ c’mon…”

Sam’s mouth on the back of his neck, biting down gently.  “Patience, big brother,” he breathed.  “I’m gettin the lube.  Stay like that.”  Then Sam stepping away from him.

Silence.  Dean had a sense of Sam standing behind him, unmoving.

“…Sam?”

“Stick your butt out,” Sam said. 

Dean bit his lip.  Then shifted his weight, spreading his legs further apart.  He tilted his butt up and out.

 _“That’s_ it,” Sam said.  It sounded like he was smiling again.  “You look good like that, big brother.  Now stay still.”

Dean leaned his forehead against the wall.  His chest was heaving, like he’d been running.  He licked his lips.  “Sam-“

“Shhh,” Sam said.  Dean heard him rustling around.  “You just concentrate on standin there.  Waitin to get fucked.”

Then behind him again, hot breath on Dean’s neck.  Dean heard him unzipping himself, the rustle of clothes.  A light thump, the bottle of lube tossed onto the floor.

“I love your ass,” Sam said.  Dean heard a deep satisfaction in his voice.  Then suddenly Sam’s mouth, there.  Biting down, hard.

_“Ouch!”_

Sam laughed.  “That’s gonna bruise up good,” he said.

“You little shit,” Dean said.  But he was trembling with sensation, his cock throbbing.

Sam laughed again.  But then two slicked up, greasy fingers, sliding into him. 

All the way up.

_“Oh!”_

_“Oh,_ yeah,” Sam said.  “There we go.”  And those fingers, moving around inside him.  Pressing.

 _“Ouch_ Sam, shit,” Dean bit out.  But straining towards those fingers, his hips twisting helplessly.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Sam crooned.   “Does it?” And again those fingers, pressing deeper in.  _Curling._

 _“Uh,”_ Dean said.  All he was _capable_ of saying, at this point.

“I think you’re ready,” Sam murmured.  “You ready for me, Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer.  God, Sammy was making him work for it today.

“…Dean?”  And those fingers, _fluttering_ now.  Knowing just what to do.

 _“_ Jesus Sam, you gonna fuck me or what?” Dean snapped.  But his butt, tilted up invitingly.  Begging for it.

Sam laughed.  “Oh yeah,” he said.  “I’m gonna fuck you.”  And his fingers suddenly withdrawn, cool air on Dean’s asshole.  But now two thumbs on the stretched out, sensitive skin.  Pulling it wider, tighter.  The tip of Sam’s cock, pressed there.  Dean winced, swore under his breath.  Sam laughed again.

“Gonna fuck you so good,” he whispered.  And now his cock, pushing in.  That tight stretch, almost unbearable.

Dean was panting.

“Gettin there,” Sam whispered.  And pushing.

Dean’s hands were flat against the hard, cold surface of the door.  He glanced at them, saw that his fingers were white.  His asshole was burning around the slow thrust of Sam’s cock.  He gritted his teeth.  Pushed back.

Sam’s soft laughter.  “That’s it,” he said.  “Like that, Dean.  Just like that.”  And now his cock, another hard push.  Then sliding, all the way in.

Dean, pinned helplessly against the door.  Up on his _toes_ practically, skewered on that long cock, and gasping, trembling against that hard, internal rub, that grinding push and pull, Dean feeling himself starting to lose it under the familiar mix of pain and pleasure.

“Gonna _fuck you,”_ Sam whispered.  And he proceeded to do just that, his hips slamming mercilessly, standing between Dean’s spread out legs and _fucking him,_ Dean caught between the hard surface of the door and his little brother’s hard body, Sam taking no prisoners, _assaulting_ Dean’s helpless ass, but Dean moaning now, through clenched teeth.  Ecstasy building, spiraling through him.  And Sam’s chest heaving, Sam starting to tremble.

“Sam,” Dean gasped.  “Put your hand on me.”  And Sam’s hand reaching around, folding around Dean’s cock. 

“Oh,” Dean bit out.  “Oh god…Sam, Sammy…” and he was coming, feeling Sam coming, Sam spurting deep and hot into his ass, his brother’s breath shuddering.  Sam’s mouth, clamping down at the last moment on the back of Dean’s neck, a hot brand, as Dean bucked into Sam’s slick, supple fingers, gripping his cock so tight.

The two of them, leaning weakly against the door.

Dean coming back to himself, conscious of his brother surrounding him, Sam leaning on him heavily, hands braced beside his, those large hands, so ridiculously oversized…and now the tickle of Sam’s hair, Sam’s head bent down to brush Dean’s throat, Sam bent down over and around Dean, Sam wrapping his long self around Dean.  Leaning on Dean, still joined to him, softening.

“Lemme up, Sammy,” Dean said eventually.  He felt Sam take a breath.  But then his brother stepped back, sliding out of Dean, Dean feeling cooling fluids dripping out of him, dripping down his legs.  He started to straighten up.  Sam's hand on his ass.

“Stay,” Sam whispered. 

Dean stilled.  He heard Sam zipping himself up.  Then moving around, the sound of water running.  Dean stayed leaning against the door, his eyes closed. 

A wet, rough cloth between his legs.  Then Sam’s hands, pulling Dean’s shorts and jeans back up.  Dean moved to help him.

“No,” Sam said quietly.  Dean was still.

Sam had finished dressing him.  His hands on Dean’s body, gently turning him around.

Dean looked up at his brother.  Those weird colour eyes, dark in the dim room.

Sam grinned at him.  “That was fun.”

Dean snorted.  “You reamed me out, Sammy.  Dunno that was the best move, with what we’ve got ahead of us tonight.  I’m as sore as hell now.”

Sam leaned forward.  He kissed Dean, put his tongue in Dean’s mouth.  Kissed him until Dean was leaning forward too, in spite of himself, leaning into Sam with his own mouth open.  Kissing Sam back.

Sam walking backwards, hands gripping Dean’s arms, pulling him along.  “Let’s lie down,” he murmured.  And then the two of them were on the bed, their arms around each other, and kissing, kissing like they’d just discovered kissing, kissing like breathing, endlessly, unthinkingly...kissing like they’d die if they stopped.

But eventually they stopped.

Sam’s head, tucked under Dean’s chin.  “Anyways, I like you sore,” he mumbled into Dean’s chest.

Dean laughed.  “Fuck off,” he said.  But his hands stroking Sam’s back, warm under his shirt, the soft flannel.

Sam laughed too.  Then one hand, patting Dean’s ass.  Rubbing it, long fingers splayed out.  “My big brother, so well fucked,” he said.  And that deep satisfaction in his voice again.  “Just like I always wanted.”

“…Always, huh?” Dean said after a moment.  His hands, now motionless on Sam’s back.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Then he sighed, luxuriously.  “All mine to play with.”  He patted Dean’s ass again. 

“Enjoyin it?” Dean asked him, dryly.

“Yup,” Sam replied.  He sounded very pleased with himself, and with the universe, in general. 

Dean, holding his brother silently.

“You happy you got what you wanted, Sam?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “Real happy.”  And burrowing his head into Dean’s chest.  A long arm thrown over Dean, gathering him in close.  “You’re freakin awesome, big brother.”

Dean smiled at this.  “I take care of you pretty good.”

“You take care of me _real_ good,” Sam said.  And that voice, a cozy purr.

Dean silent.  But then he started stroking Sam’s back again.  “Let’s get some sleep,” he said.  “Long night ahead of us.”

“Uh huh.”  Sam mumbling now, already halfway gone.

Dean held him.  He thought about the coming hunt, the blue flames of the spell fire flickering over the three of them, him, Sam and their dad as they stood silently waiting, three predators as lethal as the thing lured to them, that rogue spirit tricked into their fatal circle by the cryptic, irresistible message Sam had devised and sent to it (by _email,_ of all things) and so stepping through the flames to its death.

Well, that was the plan, anyway.  Things could always go wrong.

Sam and John didn’t seem too worried about that, though.  That was Dean’s job.

To keep his brother and his dad alive.

“I take care of you, Sammy,” Dean said.  He put his nose into Sam’s hair.  

“That’s what I do,” Dean whispered.

Sam didn’t answer.  He was sleeping.

 


	48. Chapter 48

Taking care of Sam was a complicated business.

I mean, it always had been.  Sammy was _complicated,_ okay?

But something had changed.  Something important.  And it had very little to do with Sam, actually.

What had changed, was…

Dean had stopped trying to figure Sam out. 

Or change him.

Or control him.

Dean had stopped trying to do _anything_ with him.

Except enjoy him.

Just enjoy his brother, in all his various flavours.

Because, you know.

Sam, back from the dead.

You couldn’t forget that.  Dean never did.  He remembered every time he looked at Sam, that sight, of Sam so pale and still, so deeply tranced that his breaths were barely discernable, but with those cruel dark marks, rising on his skin.

His brother in a fight to the death, off in some place that Dean couldn’t see, couldn’t reach, couldn’t do… _anything,_ other than to watch, dizzy and sick, his own breath coming fast and shallow in his chest.

To watch, more than ready to follow Sam into that dark place.

By any means necessary.  Death a relief at this point.

Yeah.

So, anyway, that sight, of Sam’s still, pale face.  It underlay everything now, like something glimpsed under water.  Lurking there, still and silent under a sparkling surface, resident under the sparkling presence of Sam laughing over late night diner coffee…of Sam reading his way through a pile of dusty records in some town hall basement, glancing up occasionally to argue a point with their dad who’d be seated across from him ploughing through his own pile...of Sam kicked back on their motel room bed, long legs crossed at the ankle, lazily watching the news and commenting along with his own particular brand of bone deep (hilarious) sarcasm...of Sam, his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pulling Dean into a close kiss, those golden eyes gleaming…of Sam, his silky head thrown back, eyes closed, writhing exquisitely under the thrust of Dean’s cock…

That vision, of his still, pale face.

It underlay everything.

But it wasn’t…upsetting, exactly.

It was more like, perspective.

Of what could happen, at any given moment.

And any moment, that wasn’t _that…_

Well, that moment was there to be enjoyed.

And Dean was.  He was _enjoying_ Sam, fuck yeah.  More than he _ever_ had, more than when they’d just started this thing, even.

He was enjoying his complicated brother, who was as changeable as the weather.

Because, you know. 

Sam, back from the dead.

Sam, he’d won the rights to Dean’s enjoyment.  

And Sam, he was aware of this.

Boy, was he ever.

***

Dean, letting himself into their motel room, stamping slushy snow off his boots.  Glancing casually over the room, noting the empty, rumpled bed, Sam’s workout clothes in a pile on the floor, the closed bathroom door, the shower running.  Dean had been out all day with their dad, with Sam left to himself, to go to his classes then training, like usual.  But now the three of them were meeting up over dinner, John eager to discuss the day’s findings with Sam, to bounce his thoughts off his younger son’s subtle, flexible brain with Sam listening intently, his bright eyes focused.  Then Sam, summarizing the hunt’s salient points in about two sentences, highlighting the weak spots in their dad’s thinking with his usual, infuriating ease and John getting riled at this, as per usual, but _not_ telling Sam to shut his smart-ass mouth…instead, arguing _back,_ just like he used to do with Bobby…him and Sam leaning across the table towards each other, hissing at each other in the low, intense voices that were the hunter’s equivalent of shouting (in public), their eyes locked onto each other, interrupting each other, insulting each other, throwing out obscure references at each other, sometimes in Latin... 

And Dean watching this, fascinated.

His dad and his brother, going at each other head to head.

But it wasn’t like before, with John barking at Sam in frustration and Sam snarking back, miserable and resentful.  I mean, they still barked and snarked because, well, that’s what they did.

But it was different now.  Because it was all in support of the hunt.  Their dad, leaning on Sam hard to get what he wanted.  But all he wanted was information.  Thoughts.  Ideas.  Not anything else.  He wasn’t trying to turn Sam into Dean, anymore. 

And Sam, he didn’t seem to mind being leaned on.  He was up for it, engaged.  Like he’d told their dad he would be.

So Dean, watching their dad and Sam go at each other with words instead of fists, their eyes bright, arguing themselves up a strategy that would kill a monster, save a life, solve a mystery…

And keep the three of them alive.

Sam’s mind, another weapon for John to deploy. 

Sam an asset, finally.  Not like Dean.  But an asset, nonetheless.

Their dad was deeply pleased about this, Dean could tell.  Even if Sam’s attitude still bugged the shit out of him.  But he was putting up with it now, because he respected what Sam brought to the table.  And seeing _that_ was…well.  It was something.  You had to be there.

John’s aggravated voice.  “You’re missin the point, Sam.”

Sam.  “I’m _not_ missin the point, I’m _arguin_ the point.  You’re just not followin the _argument._   Dad.”  And that voice of his, pure bitch.  Even _Dean_ felt like smacking him one.

John.  “I’m followin you just _fine_ you little…”  A breath.  Then, “See, _you’re_ not seein that-“

And on and on, et cetera et cetera.  And Dean, sipping his coffee silently.  Watching.

Not stepping in.  Just watching.

And eventually a game plan emerging, hammered out painfully, in rough outline at first, but then finer and finer as Dean watched his brother and dad, their dark heads now bent over John’s notebook, John sketching something with Sam tapping his finger against the paper, “No, here it should be at an angle, like maybe 60 degrees-“ and Dean just watching this.

Just keeping his mouth shut.  Sipping his coffee as discreetly as possible.

Because occasionally they’d try to draw him in, Dean pinned suddenly, under two sets of eyes.

Their dad.  “Dean, _you_ see my point here, if Sam’d just shut up for one second-“

Sam.  “Dean, tell Dad that’s a good way to get us all killed-“

And Dean, sipping.  Nodding, wisely.  “Um.”

Their dad, looking dissatisfied.  “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”  And Sam, raising his eyebrows.

Dean.  “It means you both have a point.  Keep on talkin.” 

Sam, looking at him suddenly. 

Dean met his eyes, looked away.  Shrugged.  “Keep talkin.  You’ll get there.”  Sam staring at him, starting to grin. 

And now their dad, smiling slightly too.  “Keepin out of this, are you son?”

“Yup,” Dean said.  “I’m Switzerland.”  And Sam’s eyebrows climbing into his hair.  But then turning back to their dad.  Opening his mouth.  And the two of them back at it.

And Dean watching.  In quiet awe.

Because Sam and Dad.  Working together.  In their own grouchy/bitchy, hostile way. 

It was a thing of beauty.  He wasn’t about to interfere.

So anyway, anticipating another evening like this.  Sitting on the unmade bed, watching the bathroom door.  The shower stopped.  The sound of Sam, shuffling around.  His voice through the closed door.

“Dean?  You out there?”

“Yeah.  How’d you know?”

“Because it’s six o’clock.  If you’re not in the middle of killin somethin…it’s dinner time.”

Dean smiled.  “I’m that predictable, huh?”

“Yeah.  S’okay though.”  And now Sam, opening the door.  Standing there with a towel over his shoulder.  And nothing else.  “I like it.”

Dean, looking at him.  His tall young brother in all his sharply defined, lean muscularity, but Sam’s shoulders suddenly broader, his chest deeper, those hard curves of muscle on his lats and upper arms, the tracing of blue veins under satiny skin.  Sam had been pushing the weightlifting recently. 

Sam, watching Dean watching him.  He smiled.  “Like what you see?” he asked.

Dean nodded silently.

Sam, walking slowly toward him, his cock hardening.  Dean’s eyes on this.

Sam was standing in front of him, putting himself between Dean’s legs.  His cock, bobbing in front of Dean’s face.

“Open your mouth,” Sam said softly.

Dean opened his mouth.

Sam’s cock, pushing into his mouth.  Dean opened his mouth wide, letting Sam all the way in.  Then closed up tight.  Sucked back, hard.

Sam moaned.  His hands came up to clasp the sides of Dean’s head.  “Use your tongue on me,” he whispered.

Dean curled his tongue against Sam’s cock.  Pressed down with the tip of his tongue, probing the warm, firm flesh, seeking out all those delicious little spots.  Sam moaned again.  He started moving himself against Dean’s mouth.  “Gonna fuck your mouth, big brother,” he whispered.

Dean’s hands, now clasping Sam’s hips.  His mouth, going to work on that cock, meeting Sam’s thrusts smoothly, finding a rhythm. 

Sam moaning.  Starting to shudder.

No.  Dean wasn’t ready for Sam to come just yet.  He broke away from him.  Pushed Sam away, stood up.

Sam rocked back on his heels.  “What-“

Dean was kissing him.  Kissing his brother, his tongue sliding into Sam’s mouth.  He put his hands on Sam’s ass, curving them around.  “Keep that cock hard for me,” he whispered against Sam’s mouth.  He felt Sam smile.

But then Sam stepped close.  He wrapped his arms around Dean, dipping his head down to catch Dean’s mouth.  Thrust his cock between Dean’s legs, delicate skin against rough denim, Sam’s soft hum of pleasure.  “No.  You do _me,”_ he whispered.

“…Yeah?” Dean whispered back.  His mouth had moved to the side of Sam’s throat, the soft skin, the pulse, pounding.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered.  And shuddering, leaning into Dean’s mouth, his head falling onto Dean’s shoulder, his mouth suddenly on the sensitive join between Dean’s neck and shoulder, sharp teeth biting down, _Dean_ shuddering now.  “Fuck me, Daddy,” Sam whispered.

And Dean _feeling_ that whisper, a hot curl through his whole body.  His hands came up to grasp Sam’s upper arms.  He turned Sam, pushed his naked brother down onto the bed.

Stood over him, taking off his own clothes.  Sam’s eyes on this.

“Show me your ass,” Dean said to him, and Sam raised his legs, turning his butt up under Dean’s gaze.

“Open it,” Dean said. 

Sam’s hands, moving between his legs.  His fingers on his asshole, pulling it open, that dark little mouth.

Dean grinned.  He was kneeling between Sam’s legs, his mouth there, biting, licking.

Sam gasping.  “Omigod fuck me, fuck me, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean, tonguing him.  “What do you say?” he whispered.

“Please, Daddy,“ Sam whispered.

Dean was kneeling up between Sam’s legs.  His cock there, starting to push in.  His hands on the backs of Sam’s thighs.  The first thrust, not so easy without lube.

 _“Oh!”_ And Sam gazing up, those golden eyes hazy.

Dean smiled at him.  “You my good boy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  And smiling too.  But then his eyes suddenly fluttering shut as Dean thrust into him again, Sam’s head falling back.

“You bein a good boy for me?” Dean whispered.  And fucking into Sam now, every thrust carrying him deeper, Sam’s ass a hot pucker around him, Sam arms clutching him, Sam’s legs wrapped around him, Sam’s breath shuddering.

“Yes Daddy,” Sam whispered and Dean feeling a wave of pleasure at this, rolling, crashing through him.  He dropped his head against Sam and started fucking him  _hard,_ pounding into his brother, listening to Sam’s sweet moans and then the ecstasy rising, taking Dean over and now he was coming, _grinding_ himself against Sam’s cock and Sam keening now, Sam’s cock spurting against his belly, Sam putting his damp, silky head into the curve of Dean’s neck and nuzzling into him even as he shuddered with his own release. 

Dean sinking onto his brother, his breath slowing.  Lying on Sam, the feel of his brother’s chest rising and falling beneath him, the warm, breathing landscape of Sam.

Sam’s hands, stroking his back.  “Dean,” he whispered.

“Yes, baby,” Dean murmured.

“What time’s Dad gettin here?”

“We’re meetin him,” Dean said.  “He’s downtown already.  I just came back to pick you up.” 

“We stayin downtown too?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “We’re grabbin a bite, then headin over.  Gonna stake the place out tonight, take turns watchin.  When you’re not on watch you c’n sleep in the car.”

“Dad expectin the shifter to show tonight?” Sam asked.

“Maybe,” Dean said.  “It’s the first night of the new moon so it’s a little early.  But Dad’s not takin any chances.”

Sam sighed.  “It’s not the lunar cycle, it’s the equinoctial cycle that’s really drivin that thing,” he said.  “It’s not gonna show until the two of them are synced, which isn’t gonna be until March 21st.  We’re like, way early, like a _week_ early.  Like I told Dad _already.”_

Dean sighed back at him.  “Well you c’n say that to Dad if you want.  But I already know what he’s gonna say, and so do you.”

“He’s gonna say, well what if I’m wrong ‘n’ we miss our shot,” Sam said.  “And then someone dies.  Cause of _me,_ thinkin I knew it all.”

“Yup,” Dean said.  “Sounds about right.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said.  “But I _am_ right though.  ‘N’ Dad knows it.  He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s not _that,_ Sam, he’s just bein cautious,” Dean answered.  “Cause what if you _are_ wrong?  Better to follow the method.” 

“Which is us, spendin a week sleepin in the car,” Sam grumbled.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “So?”

“I’m right,” Sam grumbled.  “Don’t know why you guys can’t just _trust_ me.  I _told_ Dad how this hunt would go down, like, right at the beginning.”

Dean smiled.  “Which is why Dad wants you there,” he said.  “He wants to see you provin your point in action.  Or not.”

“Huh,” Sam grumbled.  “Well at least you ‘n’ him get to sleep here durin the day.  _I’m_ in school.”

Dean wasn’t smiling now.  “You don’t want to come, Sammy, I’ll let Dad know,” he said. 

“Nah,” Sam said.  “I’m comin.  School’s not such a big deal right now anyways, just coastin along till final exams.  I c’n catch a few zzz’s durin the day too and anyways I want to be with you ‘n’ Dad when this thing goes down.” 

Dean stroked him.  “You do, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I’m with you, big brother.  And also…I wanna see Dad’s face when this hunt rolls out _exactly_ like I told him it would.  I’m gonna rub it in, _hard.  That’ll_ be worth sleepin in the car.”

Dean laughed.  Stroked Sam’s back.  “You’re such a little shit,” he said.  “Dad doesn’t need you givin him such a hard time all the time, Sammy, c’mon.”

“Oh he does, actually,” Sam said.  And his voice was different suddenly, cool and precise.  “That’s _exactly_ what he needs.”

“Sam,” and Dean was serious now.  “Dad’s been really tryin, with you.  I see it, even if you don’t.  So relax, okay?  And anyway, he deserves your respect.  He’s the senior hunter.  _He’s_ still in charge, here.  And…you know…he’s your _dad.”_

Sam snorted.  “John’s in charge,” he said.  “I’ll give him that much.  He says ‘jump’ and _you_ say ‘how high’ even if that puts you in the firing line.  _That_ hasn’t changed, which is why I want to be there.  Keepin an eye on things.  Watchin your back.”

Dean was annoyed.  “I c’n handle myself, Sammy.  I’ve been doin it _long_ before you showed up.  ‘N’ Dad ‘n’ I are a great team, we’ve been huntin together since I was younger than you are now.  And we’ve got a pretty fuckin decent track record.  So don’t think just because you’ve started goin out with us that you know everythin about that, too.  You don’t.”

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean continued.  “And…just so we’re clear…when we’re out there…it’s _me_ watchin out for _you._   And I’m countin on you listenin to Dad just as close as I do.  It’s one thing to argue durin a strategy session.  But when it’s lives on the line, Sam, Dad’s word is _law._   Cause there’s no room out there for second guessin.  No room and no time.  You gotta respect that.”

Sam was quiet.  But then said, “I do respect that, Dean.”

Dean took a breath.  “Good,” he said.  Gave Sam’s back a final pat.  “We gotta get up now, Sammy.  Dad’s waitin.”

Sam didn’t move.  “But you gotta know somethin Dean.  Somethin important.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked.

“Dad’s word _isn’t_ law,” Sam said.  “Not for me.”

Dean tensed.

But then Sam suddenly curled himself up into a ball.  Made himself as small as possible, burrowing himself into Dean.  Dean found himself automatically curving around Sam again, his arms folding around his brother protectively.

“It’s _your_ word that’s law,” Sam murmured into Dean’s chest.  And his hand, suddenly slinking between Dean’s legs.  Finding Dean’s cock, rubbing it, sinuously.

Dean closed his eyes.  “Jesus, Sam,” he said helplessly.

 _“You’re_ my real daddy,” Sam murmured.  And his fingers, busy between Dean’s legs.  _“You’re_ the one I listen to…just you.”

“Sam-“

 _“-Just_ you…” Sam repeated, luxuriously.  And that voice of his, purring.  “…lookin out for me…tellin me what to do…keepin me in line…for my own good…”

“You  _like_ that, huh?” Dean said.  He was hard again, in spite of himself.  One of his hands found Sam’s round butt, curved around it.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  “I've been known to,”  He rubbed his butt against Dean’s hand.  “Gonna spank me, Daddy?” he whispered.  “For gettin mouthy?”

Dean’s eyes were closed.  He was starting to lose it again, to lose himself in the sensation of _Sam,_ all cuddled up close, that silky skin, that dark voice, that skilled touch, Jesus.  He pulled himself back, with an effort.  “Gonna spank you good,” he said.  Felt a shudder along Sam’s skin.  Dean smiled.  “Tomorrow mornin,” he murmured.  “Turn that ass _bright_ red.  Give you somethin to think about, like you seem to need.”  And feeling Sam’s reaction to this, his brother pushing himself _closer,_ his breath hissing.  Dean kissed him.  “Now get up, Sam.  We gotta go.”  He opened his eyes and pushed Sam away.  Sat up.

Sam unfolded himself leisurely.  Stood up beside the bed, displaying his hard cock once more in front of Dean’s eyes.  “Kiss it,” he said.  “One for the road.”

Dean laughed.  Sam, Jesus.  Too much.  But he put his face up against Sam’s cock.  Opened his mouth, kissed the tip of Sam’s cock.  Took it into his mouth, sucked it back quickly.  Curled his tongue around it.  Sam was shuddering.  “Oh Daddy,” he whispered.

Dean was standing up.  He put his arms around Sam and hugged him.  “That’s enough now, baby boy,” he said.  “We’ll pick up again tomorrow.  No more distractin me.”

“Yes Daddy,” Sam said meekly.  He turned away from Dean, started to dress.

Dean dressed too, one eye on his brother.  Sam was checking his gun, his movements smooth now, automatic, efficient.  He tucked his gun into the back of his jeans.  Pulled on his hoodie, zipped it up.  Pulled a black beanie over his hair, shrugged on his jacket.  Stood waiting for Dean beside the door.

Dean looking at this, his tall young brother, armed and ready to go.  Standing there, calm and deadly.  Waiting for Dean to lead him out into the night.

Just waiting, his expression cool and serene.  His eyes quiet. 

Nothing behind those eyes, now.

Dean started to speak, hesitated. 

Sam watching this.  Waiting. 

“Is this a game to you, Sam?” Dean asked him.

Sam gazing back at him, steady.

“Well?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, smiled.

Then said,

“No more than anythin else.”

Dean staring at him, silent.

Sam’s expression was serious now.  “Does it matter?” he asked.  “As long as I’m good at it?”

Dean, silent.

“I’m here,” Sam said.  “Doin what you raised me to do.  You _and_ Dad.”  And quiet, his eyes on Dean.  Dean didn’t answer.  Because he couldn’t, somehow.

Acknowledge this.  Sam watching him.

“But you know…” Sam continued slowly, “I’m doin it for _you._   Like I always have.  Not for Dad.  Not for me _._   Only _you.”_

And quiet.  Just waiting, again.

“Why?” Dean asked.  He felt that word punching up through his chest, the question coming hard.

“Because I want to,” Sam said. 

Then said, “You’re worth it.”

Dean silent.  A feeling, rising up inside of him, too large for words.

Sam smiling again.  “So does that make it all a game?  You tell me.”

Dean, listening to this.  He started to answer then thought the better of it.  He picked up his own gun, tucking it out of sight under his jacket.  Then walked past Sam silently, exiting their room, walking towards their car.  But still listening, still perfectly aware.  Perfectly conscious.

Of the light sound of his brother’s footsteps, following him.


End file.
